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For Marcus, Dustin, and Scottie

Prologue

IT’S STRANGE HOW WE ALWAYS give big news to loved ones in a coma, as if a coma

is just a thing that happens from a lack of something to be excited about in your

life.

Mom is in the ICU at the hospital. The doctor told us she has forty-eight

hours to live. Grandma, Grandpa, and Dad are out in the waiting room calling

relatives and eating vending machine snacks. Grandma says Nutter Butters

soothe her anxiety.

I’m standing around Mom’s tiny, comatose body with my three older

brothers—Marcus (the together one), Dustin (the smart one), and Scott (the

sensitive one). I wipe the corners of her crusted-shut eyes with a rag and then it

begins.

“Mom,” Together leans over and whispers into Mom’s ear, “I’m gonna move

back to California soon.”

We all perk up, excited to see if Mom might suddenly jolt awake. Nothing.

Then Smart steps forward.

“Mama. Uh, Mama, Kate and I are getting married.”

Again, we all perk up. Still nothing.

Sensitive steps forward.

“Mommy…”

I’m not listening to what Sensitive says to try and get Mom to wake up

because I’m too busy working on my own wake-up material.

And now it’s my turn. I wait until everyone else goes down to grab some food

so that I can be alone with her. I pull the squeaky chair close to her bed and sit

down. I smile. I’m about to bring the big guns. Forget weddings, forget moving

home. I’ve got something more important to oer. Something I’m sure Mom

cares about more than anything.

“Mommy. I am… so skinny right now. I’m nally down to eighty-nine

pounds.”

I’m in the ICU with my dying mother and the thing that I’m sure will get her

to wake up is the fact that in the days since Mom’s been hospitalized, my fear

and sadness have morphed into the perfect anorexia-motivation cocktail and,

nally, I have achieved Mom’s current goal weight for me. Eighty-nine pounds.

I’m so sure this fact will work that I lean all the way back in my chair and

pompously cross my legs. I wait for her to come to. And wait. And wait.

But she never does. She never comes to. I can’t make sense of it. If my weight

isn’t enough to get Mom to wake up, then nothing will be. And if nothing can

wake her up, then that means she’s really going to die. And if she’s really going

to die, what am I supposed to do with myself? My life purpose has always been

to make Mom happy, to be who she wants me to be. So without Mom, who am

I supposed to be now?

before

THE PRESENT IN FRONT OF me is wrapped in Christmas paper even though it’s

the end of June. We have so much paper left over from the holidays because

Grandpa got the dozen-roll set from Sam’s Club even though Mom told him a

million times that it wasn’t even that good of a deal.

I peel—don’t rip—o the paper, because I know Mom likes to save a

wrapping paper scrap from every present, and if I rip instead of peel, the paper

won’t be as intact as she’d like it to be. Dustin says Mom’s a hoarder, but Mom

says she just likes to preserve the memories of things. So I peel.

I look up at everyone watching. Grandma’s there, with her poofy perm and

her button nose and her intensity, the same intensity that always comes out

when she’s watching someone open a present. She’s so invested in where gifts

come from, the price of them, whether they were on sale or not. She must know

these things.

Grandpa’s watching too, and snapping pictures while he does. I hate having

my picture taken, but Grandpa loves taking them. And there’s no stopping a

grandpa who loves something. Like how Mom tells him to stop eating his

heaping bowl of Tillamook Vanilla Bean Ice Cream every night before bed

because it won’t do any good for his already failing heart, but he won’t. He

won’t stop eating his Tillamook and he won’t stop snapping his pictures. I’d

almost be mad if I didn’t love him so much.

Dad’s there, half-asleep like always. Mom keeps nudging him and whispering

to him that she’s really not convinced his thyroid is normal, then Dad says “my

thyroid’s ne” in an irritated way and goes back to being half-asleep ve seconds

later. This is their usual dynamic. Either this or an all-out scream-ght. I prefer

this.

Marcus, Dustin, and Scottie are there too. I love all of them for dierent

reasons. Marcus is so responsible, so reliable. I guess this makes sense since he’s

basically an adult—he’s fteen—but even so, he seems to have a sturdiness to

him that I haven’t seen in many other adults around me.

I love Dustin even though he seems a bit annoyed by me most of the time. I

love that he’s good at drawing and history and geography, three things I’m

terrible at. I try to compliment him a lot on the things he’s good at, but he calls

me a brownnoser. I’m not sure what that is exactly, but I can tell it’s an insult by

the way he says it. Even so, I’m pretty sure he secretly appreciates the

compliments.

I love Scottie because he’s nostalgic. I learned that word in the Vocabulary

Cartoons book Mom reads to us every day, because she homeschools us, and

now I try to use it at least once a day so I don’t forget it. It really does apply to

Scottie. “A sentimentality for the past.” That’s denitely what he has, even

though he’s only nine so doesn’t have much of a past. Scottie cries at the end of

Christmas and the end of birthdays and the end of Halloween and sometimes at

the end of a regular day. He cries because he’s sad that it’s over, and even though

it barely is over, he’s already yearning for it. “Yearning” is another word I learned

in Vocabulary Cartoons.

Mom’s watching too. Oh, Mom. She’s so beautiful. She doesn’t think she is,

which is probably why she spends an hour doing her hair and makeup every day,

even if she’s just going to the grocery store. It doesn’t make sense to me. I swear

she looks better without that stu. More natural. You can see her skin. Her eyes.

Her. Instead she covers it all up. She spreads liquid tan stu on her face and

scrapes pencils along her tear ducts and smears lots of creams on her cheeks and

dusts lots of powders on top. She does her hair up all big. She wears shoes with

heels so she can be ve foot two, because she says four foot eleven—her actual

height—just doesn’t cut it. It’s so much that she doesn’t need, that I wish she

wouldn’t use, but I can see her underneath it. And it’s who she is underneath it

that is beautiful.

Mom’s watching me and I’m watching her and that’s how it always is. We’re

always connected. Intertwined. One. She smiles at me in a pick-up-the-pace kind

of way, so I do. I pick up the pace and nish peeling the paper o my gift.

I’m immediately disappointed, if not horried, when I see what I’ve received

as my present for my sixth birthday. Sure, I like Rugrats, but this two-piece outt

—a T-shirt and shorts—features Angelica (my least favorite character)

surrounded by daisies (I hate owers on clothes). And there are rues around

the sleeves and leg holes. If there is one thing I could pinpoint as being directly in

opposition to my soul, it’s rues.

“I love it!” I shout excitedly. “It’s my favorite gift ever!”

I throw on my best fake smile. Mom doesn’t notice the smile is fake. She

thinks I genuinely love the gift. She tells me to put the outt on for my party

while she already starts taking o my pajamas. As she’s removing my clothes, it

feels more like a rip than a peel.

It’s two hours later. I’m standing in my Angelica uniform at Eastgate Park

surrounded by my friends, or rather the only other people in my life who are my

age. They’re all from my primary class at church. Carly Reitzel’s there, with her

zigzag headband. Madison Thomer’s there, with her speech impediment that I

wish I had because it’s so freaking cool. And Trent Paige is there, talking about

pink, which he does excessively and exclusively, much to the dismay of the adults

around him. (At rst I didn’t realize why the adults cared so much about Trent’s

pink obsession, but then I put two and two together. They think he’s gay. And

we’re Mormon. And for some reason, you can’t be gay and be Mormon at the

same time.)

The cake and ice cream are rolled out and I’m thrilled. I’ve been waiting for

this moment for two whole weeks, since I rst decided what I was going to wish

for. The birthday wish is the most power I have in my life right now. It’s my best

chance at control. I don’t take this opportunity for granted. I want to make it

count.

Everyone sings “Happy Birthday” o-key, and Madison and Trent and Carly

throw in cha-cha-chas after every line—it’s so annoying to me. I can tell they all

think it’s so cool, how they’re cha-cha-cha’ing, but I think it takes away from the

purity of the birthday song. Why can’t they just let a good thing be?

I lock eyes with Mom so she’ll know I care about her, that she’s my priority.

She’s not cha-cha-cha’ing. I respect that about her. She gives me one of her big

nose-wrinkling smiles that makes me feel like everything’s gonna be okay. I smile

back at her, trying to take in this moment as fully as I possibly can. I feel my eyes

starting to water.

Mom was rst diagnosed with stage four breast cancer when I was two years

old. I hardly remember it, but there are a few ashes.

There’s the ash of Mom knitting me a big green-and-white yarn blanket,

saying it was something I could keep with me while she was in the hospital. I

hated it, or I hated the way she was giving it to me, or I hated the feeling I got

when she was giving it to me—I don’t remember what exactly I hated, but there

was something in that moment that I absolutely did.

There’s the ash of walking across what must have been a hospital lawn, my

hand in Grandpa’s. We were supposed to be picking dandelions to give to Mom,

but instead I picked these brown, pokey, sticklike weeds because I liked them

better. Mom kept them in a plastic Crayola cup on our entertainment unit for

years. To preserve the memory. (Maybe this is where Scott gets his nostalgic

instincts from?)

There’s the ash of sitting on the bumpy blue carpet in a corner room in our

church building watching as two young and handsome missionaries put their

hands on Mom’s bald head to give her a priesthood blessing while everyone else

in the family sat in cold foldout chairs around the perimeter of the room. One

missionary consecrated the olive oil so that it would be all holy or whatever, then

poured the oil onto Mom’s head, making it even shinier. The other missionary

then said the blessing, asking for Mom’s life to be extended if it was God’s will.

Grandma jumped up from her seat and said, “Even if it’s not God’s will,

goddamnit!” which disrupted the Holy Spirit so the missionary had to start the

prayer over.

Even though I hardly remember that time in my life, it’s not like I have to.

The events are talked about so often in the McCurdy household that you didn’t

even have to be there at all for the experience to be etched into your memory.

Mom loves recounting her cancer story—the chemotherapy, the radiation,

the bone marrow transplant, the mastectomy, the breast implant, the stage

fourness of it, how she was only thirty-ve when she got it—to any churchgoer,

neighbor, or fellow Albertsons customer who lends her a listening ear. Even

though the facts of it are so sad, I can tell that the story itself gives Mom a deep

sense of pride. Of purpose. Like she, Debra McCurdy, was put on this earth to

be a cancer survivor and live to tell the tale to any and everyone… at least ve to

ten times.

Mom reminisces about cancer the way most people reminisce about

vacations. She even goes so far as to MC a weekly rewatch of a home video she

made shortly after learning of her diagnosis. Every Sunday after church, she has

one of the boys pop in the VHS tape since she doesn’t know how to work the

VCR.

“All right, everyone, shhhhh. Let’s be quiet. Let’s watch and be grateful for

where Mommy is now,” Mom says.

Even though Mom says we’re watching this video so we can be grateful that

she’s okay now, there’s something about watching this video that just doesn’t sit

right with me. I can tell how uncomfortable it makes the boys, and it denitely

makes me uncomfortable too. I don’t think any of us wants to be revisiting

memories of our bald, sad, then-dying mom, but none of us express this.

The video starts playing. Mom sings lullabies to all four of us kids while we sit

around her on the couch. And much like the video remains the same every time

it’s played, so too do Mom’s comments. Every single time we rewatch this video,

Mom comments on how the heaviness was just “too much for Marcus to

handle,” so he had to keep going o into the hallway to collect himself and come

back in again. She says this in a way that lets us know it’s the highest

compliment. Marcus being distraught about Mom’s terminal illness is a

testament to what an incredible person he is. Then she comments on what a

“stinker” I was, but she says the word “stinker” with such a venomous bite that

it might as well be a cuss word. She goes on to say how she can’t believe I

wouldn’t stop singing “Jingle Bells” at the top of my lungs when the mood was

clearly so sad. She can’t believe how I didn’t get that. How could I possibly be so

upbeat when my surroundings were so obviously heavy? I was two.

Age is no excuse. I feel tremendous guilt every time we rewatch the home

video. How could I not have known better? What a stupid idiot. How could I

have not sensed what Mom needed? That she needed all of us to be serious, to be

taking the situation as hard as we possibly could, to be devastated. She needed us

to be nothing without her.

Even though I know the technicalities of Mom’s cancer story—the chemo,

the bone marrow transplant, the radiation—are all words that will evoke a big,

shocked reaction from whoever hears them, like they can’t believe Mom had it

so hard, to me they’re just technicalities. They mean nothing.

But what does mean something to me is the general air in the McCurdy

household. The best way I can describe it is that, for as far back as I can

remember, the air in the house has felt like a held breath. Like we’re all in a

holding pattern, waiting for Mom’s cancer to come back. Between the constant

reenactments of Mom’s rst bout of cancer and the frequent follow-up visits

with doctors, the unspoken mood in the house is heavy. The fragility of Mom’s

life is the center of mine.

And I think I can do something about that fragility with my birthday wish.

Finally, the “Happy Birthday” song’s over. The time has come. My big

moment. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath in while I make my wish in my

head.

I wish that Mom will stay alive another year.

“ONE MORE ROW OF CLIPS and we’ll be done,” Mom says, speaking of the

buttery clips that she’s carefully pinning into my head. I hate this hairstyle, the

rows of tightly wound hair fastened into place with painful, scalp-gripping little

clips. I’d rather be wearing a baseball cap, but Mom loves this style and says it

makes me look pretty, so buttery clips it is.

“Okay, Mommy,” I say, swinging my legs back and forth while I sit on the

closed toilet seat lid. The leg swing is a nice touch. Selling it.

The house phone starts ringing.

“Shoot.” Mom opens the bathroom door and leans out of it, as far as she can

go to grab the phone that hangs from the kitchen wall. She does all of this

without letting go of the strand of my hair she’s currently working on, so my

whole body is leaned all the way over in the same direction that Mom is.

“Hello,” she says into the phone as she answers it. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh.

WHAT?! Nine p.m.? That’s the earliest?! Whatever, guess the kids will have to

get through ANOTHER NIGHT without their DAD. That’s on you, Mark.

That’s on you.”

Mom slams the phone down.

“That was your father.”

“I gured.”

“That man, Net, I tell ya. Sometimes I just…” She takes a deep, anxious

breath.

“Sometimes you just what?”

“Well I could’ve married a doctor, a lawyer, or an—”

“Indian chief,” I nish for her since I know this catchphrase of hers so well. I

asked her once which Indian chief she dated, and she said she didn’t mean it

literally, that it’s just a gure of speech, a way of saying she could have had

anyone she wanted back in the day before she had children, which has made her

less appealing. I told her I was sorry, and she said it was okay, that she’d much

rather have me than a man. Then she told me I was her best friend and kissed me

on the forehead and, as an afterthought, said that she actually did go on a few

dates with a doctor, though: “Tall and ginger, very nancially stable.”

Mom keeps clipping my hair.

“Producers too. Movie producers, music producers. Quincy Jones once did a

double take when he passed me on a street corner. Honestly, Net, not only could

I have married any of those men, but I should have. I was destined for a good life.

For fame and fortune. You know how much I wanted to be an actress.”

“But Grandma and Grandpa wouldn’t let you,” I say.

“But Grandma and Grandpa wouldn’t let me, that’s right.”

I wonder why Grandma and Grandpa wouldn’t let her, but I don’t ask. I

know better than to ask certain types of questions, the ones that go too deep

into specics. Instead, I just let Mom oer up the information she wants to oer

up, while I listen closely and try to take it in exactly the way she wants me to.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, did I clip your ear?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

“It’s hard to see from this angle.”

Mom starts rubbing my ear. I’m immediately soothed.

“I know.”

“I want to give you the life I never had, Net. I want to give you the life I

deserved. The life my parents wouldn’t let me have.”

“Okay.” I’m nervous about what’s coming next.

“I think you should act. I think you would be a great little actress. Blonde.

Blue-eyed. You’re what they love in that town.”

“In what town?”

“Hollywood.”

“Isn’t Hollywood far away?”

“An hour and a half. Granted, freeways are involved. I’d have to learn how to

drive freeways. But it’s a sacrice I’m willing to make for you, Net. ’Cuz I’m not

like my parents. I want what’s best for you. Always. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

Mom pauses the way she does before she’s about to say something she thinks

is a part of a big moment. She bends around to look me in the eye—still holding

my unnished hair strand.

“So what do you say? You want to act? You want to be Mommy’s little

actress?”

There’s only one right answer.

I DON’T FEEL READY. I know I’m not ready. The kid in front of me hops down o

the stage steps in a way that confuses me. He doesn’t seem nervous at all. This is

just another day for him. He takes a seat next to the dozen or so other children

who are already sitting because they’ve already performed their monologues.

I look around at the boring, white-walled, undecorated room and the rows of

kids in metal stackable chairs. I thumb the paper in my hands nervously. I’m

next. I got in line last so I would have more time to practice, a decision I now

regret because my nerves have had more time to build. I’ve never felt this way

before. Sick to my stomach from nerves.

“Go ahead, Jennette,” the man with the black ponytail and goatee deciding

my fate tells me.

I nod to him, then step up onstage. I set the piece of paper down so I have

more freedom to use my hands for the big gestures Mom instructed me to use,

and then I begin my monologue on Jell-O Jigglers.

My voice is shaky as I start out. I can hear it so loud in my head. I try to tune

it out, but it just keeps sounding louder. I smile big and hope that Goatee

doesn’t notice. Finally, I get to the closing line.

“… Because Jell-O Jigglers make me giggle!”

I giggle after the line, just like Mom told me—“high-pitched and cutesy, with

a little nose wrinkle at the tail end.” I hope the giggle doesn’t come across nearly

as uncomfortable as I feel with it coming out of me.

Goatee clears his throat—never a good sign. He tells me to try the monologue

one more time, but “loosen up a bit, just do it simply like you’re talking to your

friend… oh, and don’t do any of those hand gestures.”

I’m conicted. The hand gestures are exactly what Mom told me to do. If I

get to the waiting room and tell her I didn’t do the hand gestures, she’ll be

disappointed. But if I get to the waiting room and tell her I don’t have an agent,

she’ll be even more disappointed.

I do the monologue again, losing the hand gestures, and it feels slightly better,

but I can tell Goatee didn’t get exactly what he wanted. I disappointed him. I feel

awful.

After I nish, Goatee calls out nine names, including mine, and tells the

other ve kids they can go. I can tell only one of the kids understands that she’s

just been rejected. The other four waltz out of the room like they’re going to get

ice cream. I feel bad for her but good for myself. I am a Chosen One.

Goatee tells all of us that Academy Kids would like to represent us for

background work, which means we’ll stand in the background of scenes for

shows and movies. I immediately know that Goatee is trying to make bad news

sound good by the way that his face is overly animated.

Once he lets us go to tell our moms in the waiting room, Goatee calls out

three kids’ names and asks them to stay. I linger, trying to be the last one out of

the room so I can hear what’s going on with these three special children—these

three Even More Chosen Ones. Goatee tells them that they have been selected to

be represented as “principal actors,” meaning speaking actors. They did so well

on their monologues that they are not being represented as human props but

rather as genuine, certied, worthy-of-speaking ACTORS.

I feel something uncomfortable brewing inside me. Jealousy mixed with

rejection and self-pity. Why am I not good enough to speak?

I get out to the waiting room and run over to Mom, who’s balancing her

checkbook for the fourth time this week. I tell her that I’ve been chosen as a

background actor, and she seems genuinely happy. I know this is only because

she doesn’t know that there is a higher tier that I might have been chosen for. I

worry about her nding out.

Mom starts lling out the representation paperwork. She points her pen at

the dotted line I’m supposed to sign my name on. It’s next to a dotted line she’s

already signed—she has to sign too since she’s my guardian.

“What are we signing for?”

“The contract just says that the agent gets twenty percent and we get eighty

percent. Fifteen percent of that eighty percent will go into an account called a

Coogan account, which you can access once you’re eighteen. That’s all the

money that most parents let their kids have. But you’re lucky. Mommy’s not

gonna take any of your money except for my salary, plus essentials.”

“What are essentials?”

“Why are you giving me the third degree all of the sudden? Don’t you trust

me?”

I quickly sign.

Goatee comes out to give each of the parents feedback. He comes to Mom

rst and tells her that I have potential to do principal work.

“Potential?” Mom asks, critically.

“Yes, especially since she’s only six, so she’s getting an early start.”

“But why potential? Why can’t she do principal work now?”

“Well, I could tell in her monologue that she was very nervous. She seems

quite shy.”

“She is shy, but she’s getting over it. She’ll get over it.”

Goatee scratches his arm where there’s a tattoo of a tree. He takes a deep

breath like he’s getting ready to say something he’s nervous about saying.

“It’s important that Jennette wants to act, in order for her to do well,” he

says.

“Oh, she wants this more than anything,” Mom says as she signs on the next

page’s dotted line.

Mom wants this more than anything, not me. This day was stressful and not

fun, and if given the choice, I would choose to never do anything like it again.

On the other hand, I do want what Mom wants, so she’s kind of right.

Goatee smiles at me in a way that I wish I understood. I don’t like when

grown-ups make faces or sounds that I don’t understand. It’s frustrating. It

makes me feel like I’m missing something.

“Good luck,” he says to me with a certain heaviness, and then he walks away.

IT’S THREE A.M. THE FRIDAY after signing with Academy Kids when Mom wakes

me up for my rst day of background work on a show called The X Files. My call

time isn’t until ve a.m., but since Mom’s scared of driving freeways for the rst

time, she wants to get a head start and leave plenty early.

“Look at me, getting over my fear for you,” Mom says as we pile into our

1999 Ford Windstar minivan.

We arrive at 20th Century Fox studios an hour early, so we walk around for a

bit in the dark. When we pass the giant Luke Skywalker vs. Darth Vader mural

on the side of one of the soundstages, Mom squeals with delight, whips out her

disposable camera, and snaps a picture of me standing in front of it. I feel

embarrassed, like we don’t belong here.

By 4:45 a.m., Mom gures it’s close enough to my call time to show up, so we

check in just outside the soundstage with a short, bald production assistant. He

tells us we’re early, but we can stop by background crafty before it’s time to head

to set.

Background crafty is a cool place. It’s a tent at the edge of the soundstage

with food everywhere. Cereal and candy and jugs of coee and orange juice and

silver trays of breakfast foods—pancakes and waes and scrambled eggs and

bacon.

“And it’s free,” Mom says excitedly as she wraps various muns and

croissants in napkins and tucks them into her oversized Payless purse to give to

my brothers later. There are a bunch of whole eggs sitting in a tray. Mom says

they’re hard-boiled. I pluck one out to try it. Mom teaches me how to roll the

egg on a hard surface to crack the shell, then peel the shell o the egg white. I

sprinkle it with salt and pepper and take a big bite. I love it. I grab a bag of Ritz

Bits mini cheese sandwiches, too. I could get used to this.

By the time I get to the last bite of the egg, all of the other background kids—

there are thirty of us—have shown up, and we’re all called to set at once.

We trail behind the bald PA as he guides us to the soundstage where we’ll be

shooting. As soon as we cross onto the soundstage, I’m in awe. The ceiling is so

high, and it’s covered with hundreds of lights and poles. There’s the smell of

fresh wood and the sound of hammers and drills. Many people in cargo pants

pass us, some of them with tools hanging o their belts, some of them with

clipboards in their hands, some of them whispering urgently into walkie-talkies.

There’s something magical about this. It feels like so much is happening.

We get to set and the director—a small man with light brown hair long

enough to tuck behind his ears—ushers us in, talking quickly and frantically. He

looks at me and the other twenty-nine children and tells us excitedly that we will

all be playing children who are stuck in a gas chamber and suocating to death. I

nod along, trying to remember each and every word so that I can relay them to

Mom on the drive home when she asks. Suocating to death, got it.

The director tells us all where to stand, and I’m near the back of the blob of

children until he asks for the smaller kids to come up front, so I do. He then

points to each of us rapidly, one right after the other, and says to give him our

best “scared-to-death” face. I’m the ninth or tenth kid he points to, and after I

give my face, he tells the cameraman standing next to him to get a close-up of

me. I have no idea what this means, but I assume it’s good because the director

winks at me after he says it.

“One more, even more scared!” the director shouts at me. I widen my eyes a

bit, hoping that will work. It does I think, since he says, “Got it, moving on!”

and pats me on the back.

The rest of the day consists of segments of set-work and schoolwork, which

we are required to do on set, so we go back and forth between the two. Since

Mom homeschools me, she pulled my schoolwork for the day and paper-clipped

all the worksheets together into a little packet. The twelve-year-old girl seated

next to me in the schoolroom keeps elbowing me and telling me we don’t have

to do any schoolwork if we don’t want to because we’re background actors, and

the studio teachers assigned to background actors don’t care how much work

gets done because they just want to teach the principal actors. I try my best to

ignore her and ll out my page on the state capitals. After our half-hour-or-so

schoolwork segments, we’re pulled from the classroom by the PA to go do the

scene again. The same scene. The whole day, the same scene.

I have no idea why we have to keep doing this one scene so many times, and I

gure it’s best not to ask questions, but I notice that each time I come back to

the set, the camera is in a new position, so I have a feeling it has something to do

with that. Oh well, at least every time I’m brought to set, I get to see Mom.

Each time the PA walks us kids back to set, we pass the “background parents

holding room,” where all the parents are stued into a small bungalow. I wave to

Mom, who notices me every single time. No matter how engrossed in her

Woman’s World magazine she is, she dog-ears the page, looks up at me, smiles

big, and gives me a thumbs-up. We are so connected.

By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. It’s been eight and a half hours of being

on set and doing schoolwork and walking from the stage to the schoolroom and

taking directions and hearing drills and smelling smoke (there was a fog machine

on the gas chamber set to enhance the ambiance). It’s been a long day and I

haven’t particularly enjoyed it, but I did like the hard-boiled egg.

“Suocating to death,” Mom says eagerly on our way home, as she recounts

everything I told her about the day. “And in a CLOSE-UP. That’s gonna really

show o how good you are. I bet once this airs, Academy Kids is gonna beg you

to be a principal actor. BEG.”

Mom shakes her head in disbelief as she taps the steering wheel with

excitement. She seems so carefree in this moment. I try to soak in her expression

as deeply as I can. I wish she was like this more often.

“You’re gonna be a star, Nettie. I just know it. You’re gonna be a star.”

“WE HAVE TO LEAVE FOR church in fteen minutes!” Mom shouts from the other

room before I hear the distinct smack of a makeup brush being thrown against

the mirror. She must’ve gotten her eyeliner crooked again.

The church my family goes to is the Garden Grove Sixth Ward of the Church

of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Grandma was baptized a Mormon when she

was eight, and then Mom was baptized a Mormon when she was eight—just like

I’m gonna be baptized a Mormon when I’m eight, because that’s when Joseph

Smith said you become accountable for your sins. (Before then, you can sin scot-

free.) Even though both Grandma and Mom were baptized, they didn’t go to

church. I think they wanted the perk of going to heaven without doing the

legwork.

But then right after Mom was diagnosed with cancer, we started attending

church service.

“I just knew the Lord would help me get better if I was a good and faithful

servant,” Mom explained to me.

“Oh. So we started going to church when we wanted something from God?”

I asked.

“No.” Even though Mom was laughing when she said it, she sounded kind of

nervous, maybe even a little annoyed. And then she switched the subject to how

handsome Tom Cruise looked in the new Mission: Impossible 2 trailer.

I’ve never again asked when or why we started going to church. I don’t need

to know the specics of why we go to church to know that I love it.

I love the smell of the chapel—pine-scented tile cleaner and a whi of burlap.

I love my primary classes and all the songs about faith and Jesus, like “I Hope

They Call Me on a Mission” and “Book of Mormon Stories,” and my personal

favorite, “Popcorn Popping,” which, come to think of it, I’m not sure has

anything to do with faith or Jesus. (It’s about popcorn popping on an apricot

tree.)

But more than anything, I love the escape. Church is a beautiful, peaceful,

three-hour weekly reprieve from the place I hate most: home.

Home, like church, is in Garden Grove, California, a town not-so-

aectionately referred to by its inhabitants as “Garbage Grove” because, as

Dustin puts it before Mom always shuts him up, “There’s a lot of white trash

here.”

We get a good deal on renting the house, since Dad’s parents own it, but

apparently not good enough since Mom’s always complaining about it.

“We shouldn’t have to pay anything at all. That’s what family’s for,” she’ll

vent to me while doing dishes or ling her nails. “If they don’t leave the house to

your father in their will, I swear…”

We’re late on our rent just about every month—Mom’s always crying about

it. And the payments are often short—Mom’s always crying about that too.

Sometimes it’s just not quite enough even though Mom, Dad, Grandpa, and

Grandma all chip in. Grandpa and Grandma moved in with us “temporarily”

while Mom was battling cancer but just wound up staying even after she went

into remission because it worked out better for everyone.

Mom calls it the “curse of minimum wage.” Grandpa works as a ticket-taker

at Disneyland, Grandma works as a receptionist at a retirement home, Dad

makes cardboard cutouts for Hollywood Video and works in the kitchen design

department at Home Depot, and Mom went to beauty school but says having

babies sidetracked her career—“plus the hair bleaching fumes are toxic”—so she

picks up shifts at Target around the holidays but says her main job is ensuring I

make it in Hollywood.

Even though the rent payments are often short and almost always late, we’ve

never been kicked out. And I feel like if anybody but Dad’s parents owned the

house, we probably would have been kicked out by now. Part of me fantasizes

about that.

If we got kicked out, that means we’d have to move somewhere else. And if

we’d have to move somewhere else, that means we’d have to pack up the stu we

want to take with us into moving boxes. And if we’d have to pack stu into

moving boxes, that means we’d have to sort through all the stu in this house

and get rid of some of it. And that sounds wonderful.

Our home hasn’t always been like this. I’ve seen pictures from before I was

born where it actually looked pretty normal—a humble house with a little

clutter, nothing out of the ordinary.

My brothers say it began when Mom got sick; that’s when she started not

being able to let go of things. That would mean it started when I was two. Since

then the problem has only gotten worse.

Our garage is lled oor to ceiling with stu. Stacks of plastic bins are lled

with old papers and receipts and baby clothes and toys and tangled jewelry and

journals and Christmas decorations and old candy bar wrappers and expired

makeup and empty shampoo bottles and broken mug pieces in Ziploc bags.

The garage has two entrances—the back door and the main garage door. It’s

nearly impossible to get through the garage if you enter by the back door because

there’s hardly enough space for a walking path, but even on the o chance that

you are able to elbow your way through the path, you won’t want to. We have a

rat and possum problem, so the only thing you’ll see on your sliver of path is

dead rats and possums stuck in the traps Dad places every few weeks. The dead

rats and possums stink.

Since you can’t really walk through the garage, our second fridge is placed

strategically at the very front of the garage so that we can open the main garage

door and access it easily.

Easily is an overstatement.

Our garage door is the only manual one on the block, and so heavy that it

broke its own hinges. The door used to make a loud clicking sound once Dad or

Marcus—the only two in the household strong enough to lift it—heaved it up

high enough. And once that clicking sound happened, the garage door could

stay up on its own.

Well, not anymore. A few years back, after the garage door clicked, it came

crashing right back down again and it’s never been able to support itself since.

So now going to the garage has become a two-person job. Whoever opens the

heavy garage door—typically Marcus—has to hold it up with their entire body

to avoid it slamming down on top of them, while the other person—typically

me—retrieves whatever needs to be retrieved from the garage.

The times when Marcus and I are asked to retrieve something from the

garage are scary. When Marcus holds up the garage door and his face winces

underneath the weight of it, and I race to open the overstued fridge as quickly

as possible and locate the needed food item in the sea of other food items, I feel

like I’m Indiana Jones and the boulder is coming and I have to snatch the hidden

treasure before the boulder comes crashing down on me.

The bedrooms are bad too. I remember a time when Marcus, Dustin, and

Scott slept in their trundle bunk bed and I slept in my nursery, but now our

bedrooms are so lled with stu that you can’t even determine where the beds

are let alone sleep in them; we don’t sleep in the bedrooms anymore. Trifold

mats were purchased from Costco for us to sleep on in the living room. I’m

pretty sure the mats were meant for kids’ gymnastics exercises. I do not like

sleeping on mine.

This house is an embarrassment. This house is shameful. I hate this house. I

hate how being inside it makes me feel tense and anxious, and all week long I

look forward to my three-hour escape into the land of testimonies and pine-

scented tile cleaner.

That’s why it’s so upsetting to me that my family can never get out the door

on time, no matter how hard I try to make that happen.

“Come on, everybody, move, move, move!” I shout while I buckle my left

shoe.

Dustin and Scottie are just now waking up. They rub the crust out of their

eyes as Grandpa clumsily steps over their Costco mat “beds.” Grandma and

Grandpa sleep on the couch in what used to be my nursery but has since

transformed into their bedroom–slash–storage room for more stu.

“You each have ten minutes to eat breakfast and change and brush your

teeth,” I say to Dustin and Scott as they head to the kitchen to haphazardly pour

themselves cereal—Lucky Charms for Dustin and Count Chocula for Scott. I

can tell by their eye rolls that they think I’m bossing them around, but it doesn’t

feel like bossiness to me. It feels like desperation. I want order. I want peace. I

want my three-hour reprieve from this place.

“Did you guys hear me?” I ask to no response. Grandpa stands in the corner

of the kitchen, buttering his toast, and the amount of butter he’s using stresses

me out—a pat that size is costly. Mom always tells me he uses “half a stick of

butter every day and we can’t aord it, and his diabetes can’t aord it either.”

“Grandpa, can you use a little less butter? You’re gonna upset Mom.”

“Huh?” Grandpa calls out. I swear to God he huh’s me whenever I ask him

something he doesn’t want to respond to.

Exasperated, I head out and spread open The White Thing on the gray carpet

in the living room. The White Thing is a poorly named thin, white, oral-

patterned square that folds out into three ten-inch by ten-inch segments. This

trifold square serves as our “table.” Apparently, we have a thing for trifolds in

our household.

So I splay out The White Thing as Dustin and Scottie walk single le into the

living room. They’re walking like they’re on a tightrope, with just as much focus

as tightrope walkers, because they’ve both overlled their bowls with milk and

cereal to the point that the milk sloshes over the sides of the bowls and lands on

the gray carpet. Mom tells them every single day how much she hates when their

milk spills on the carpet and how it gives o a sour smell, but no matter how

many times she tells them, they just keep overpouring their milk and cereal.

Nobody listens around here.

Mom hasn’t yet put on her church shoes because she saves putting them on

for the last minute since they make her bunions throb, so I know that the second

she steps onto the milk-sopped carpet, she’ll rip o her tights, y into hysterics,

and demand that we stop at Rite Aid on the way so that she can get a new pair of

tights. If we stop at Rite Aid, that will cut into my three-hour-escape. We cannot

stop at Rite Aid.

I rush to the towel closet. On my way, I pass the bathroom. I press my ear

against the closed door and hear Grandma complaining on the phone with a

friend of hers.

“Jean left the price tag on the sweater she got me. She does that whenever she

gets something on sale but wants to pretend like she paid full price. It’s pretty

sneaky of her. Anyway, I went to Mervyn’s and saw the sweater there, seventy

percent o. She didn’t even spend fteen dollars on me….”

“Grandma, get out! The boys need to get in!” I shout as I bang on the

bathroom door.

“Why do you hate me!” Grandma yells. She always does that when she’s on

the phone with someone. Tries to make herself look like a victim.

I get to the towel closet and grab the little red dish towel with the Christmas

lights on it, wet the end of it under the kitchen faucet, and press the wet end into

the milk-soaked carpet. I look up and see Dustin and Scottie eating on The

White Thing. Scott chews silently and with an even and measured slowness,

almost like he’s in slow motion. Where is the urgency? Where is the purpose?

Dustin chews with his mouth open, loud and chomping. Urgent but not

ecient.

I check the clock. 11:12 a.m. Somehow, we have to get out the door and into

the van in eight minutes so that we can get to church for the eleven thirty service.

“Hurry it up, slowpokes!” I bark at my brothers while pressing my full body

weight into the wet Christmas towel on the milked carpet.

“Shut up, poopsmear,” Scottie snaps back at me.

Grandpa steps over me as breadcrumbs spill out of his paper towel–wrapped

toast. Grandma crosses in from the other end of the room, wrapped in a towel

shabby enough that you can see through it—disgusting. Her perm is clipped

into place with a makeshift headwrap made of toilet paper and hair clips.

“You happy, little girl?! I’m out of the bathroom now,” she says as she heads

to the kitchen.

I ignore Grandma and tell my brothers that the bathroom is free so they can

go and brush their teeth while I put their cereal bowls in the sink. Through an

act of God we may just make it to church on time.

I’m elated. I lift the wet Christmas towel from the milk spot. I head to the

kitchen to re-wet it for round two when Mom crosses through and heads for the

living room. Anxiety lls my body. I’m just about to warn Mom, but by the time

she’s out of the kitchen, I know it’s too late.

“What is this?” Mom asks in a tone that makes me know she knows exactly

what it is she just stepped in.

I tell Mom I already started to clean it up, so the wetness is mostly just water,

but it doesn’t matter. Her mood has already switched. She’s already ripping o

her tights and calling for Dad, saying we’re gonna need to stop at Rite Aid so she

can get a new pair.

I wonder if there’s something dierent I could have done to get us out the

door faster. I wonder if there’s something I can do in the future. We all pile into

the van and head to Rite Aid. Maybe we’ll make it to church in time for

“Popcorn Popping.”

“DADDY!” I SCREAM AS SOON as he walks through the door. I run into his belly

with my head, the same way I do every time he gets home from work. I take a

whi of his annel—mmm, freshly chopped wood and a dab of fresh paint, his

trademark scent.

“Hi, Net,” he says, more blandly than I would hope. I’m always crossing my

ngers for a laugh, or a hair rustle, or a hug, but they never come, or at least not

yet. I’m still hoping.

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

I’m desperate for something else to talk about with him. For some kind of

connection. With Mom, it’s eortless. Why does everything feel so stuck with

him?

“Did you have any fun?” I ask as we walk from the entryway into the living

room.

He doesn’t answer. A concerned look ashes on his face after he locks eyes

with something. I turn my head to see what he’s looking at.

Mom. And I can tell immediately by her body language and facial expression

—upright posture, lifted chin, gritted teeth, widened eyes—that she’s not upset,

she’s not angry, she’s livid. She’s about to blow. Oh no. There’s gotta be

something I can do.

“Mark,” she says, smacking her lips to really emphasize the anger. It’s now or

never, time for me to jump in.

“Love you, Mommy!” I shout. I run toward her. I hug her.

I’ve got this, I can keep her calm. But before I can think of what to say next…

“Mark Eugene McCurdy,” Mom says, her voice rising.

Oh no. Once the “Eugene” comes out, we’re almost to the blowup.

“I had to stay late ’cuz I was helping a customer, I couldn’t get away,” Dad

tries explaining. He sounds scared.

“Three hours late, Mark…”

I look over at Dustin and Scottie for help. They’re playing GoldenEye 007 for

Nintendo 64. If there is ever a time when they’re unreachable, it’s when they’re

playing GoldenEye 007 for Nintendo 64. Grandma and Grandpa are at work.

I’m in this alone.

“Mommy, why don’t we watch Jay Leno? You wanna watch Jay Leno?

Headlines are on tonight.”

“Quiet, Net.”

And I’m out. She has spoken. I am silenced. I thought for sure Jay would

work. Granted, I’m a bigger fan of Conan, but watching Jay is a family aair in

our household. (When I mentioned this in church, Sister Humire said Jay’s a

little risqué and shouldn’t I be in bed by eleven thirty p.m. but Mom told me

Sister Humire’s a judger so I can disregard whatever she says.)

I watch Mom closely. Her chest starts heaving. The intensity is growing. Her

ears get red. She lunges at Dad. Dad takes a few steps back, causing Mom to trip

onto her knees. She starts screaming, “Abuse! Abuse!” Dad grabs her by the

wrists to try to calm her down. Mom spits in his face. Somebody wins the round

of 007. A celebratory st pump ies through the air.

“Deb, I’m a couple hours late, this is not a big deal!” Dad tries yelling

through her screams.

“Don’t undermine me! DON’T UNDERMINE ME!” Mom frees her wrists

and starts slapping him.

“Go, Mom! You’ve got this!” I cheer her on like I always do as soon as I get

past the fear.

“Deb, this is unreasonable. You need help!” Dad pleads. Oh no. Doesn’t he

know that phrase is a big trigger for her? Anytime he or Grandpa have been in an

argument with Mom and said “you need help,” it only sets her o worse.

“I DON’T NEED HELP, YOU NEED HELP!” Mom screams. She runs

into the kitchen. Dad starts taking o his shoes, thinking dumbly that maybe it’s

over, maybe Mom’s mood has shifted and she’s back to normal. How can he not

know? How can he never know?

One, two, three, I count out in my mind. Less than ten seconds before she

comes back. Four, ve, six, seven. She’s back and carrying a kitchen knife, the big

one that Grandpa uses to chop her vegetables every night.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” she yells. “GET OUT!”

“Deb, please, you can’t keep doing this….”

The last time Mom forced Dad to sleep in his car was a few months back. It’s

been a longer turnaround than usual—typically he’s kicked out once a week or

so. And with good reason. Mom says he doesn’t help the family enough, he’s

always late from work, he’s probably cheating, he’s not interested in his children,

he’s an absent father, etc. The fact that he’s gotten by this long without being

kicked out is a miracle. He should just be grateful.

“GET OUT, MARK!”

“Put the knife away, Deb. This is unsafe. This is a danger to your children.”

“IT IS NOT. I WOULD NEVER HURT MY BABIES. I WOULD NEVER

HURT MY BABIES, AND HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF THAT!”

Tears are streaming down Mom’s cheeks. Her eyes are wide and shaky and

terrifying.

“GET OUT!”

She lunges at him again. He backs up.

“Okay, okay. I’m out. I’m leaving.”

He slips his shoes back on and hurries out. Mom walks back into the kitchen

and puts the knife in a drawer. She falls to her knees and starts sobbing a painful,

moaning wail. I crouch down next to her and hug her. Somebody wins the next

round of 007.

I’VE BEEN STANDING ON THIS pile of dirt since my call time this morning at six

a.m. It’s noon now and the sun is out, beating its peak heat down on me. The

principal actors around me get shaded by umbrellas between takes, and they get

to sit down in foldable chairs to rest their feet, and they get to sip from cold

water bottles freshly plucked from a cooler lled with ice cubes. But not me. I

don’t get that kind of luxury since I’m just a background actor.

Me and the other background actors stand on our piles of dirt here in the hot

desert just outside of Lancaster, umbrella-less and water-bottle-less and sweating

through every single one of the layers of our scratchy, must-smelling, Great

Depression–era clothes. We’re wearing these clothes because we’re playing

impoverished people in the Great Depression for some short lm called Golden

Dreams. The lm shows various vignettes of the history of California and is

supposedly going to play at the new Disneyland partner theme park, California

Adventure. Mom giddily relayed this information to me on our four thirty a.m.

drive here, but the only part that sounded exciting to me was that there’s a new

Disneyland theme park in store.

The worst part of all of this is the stu on my teeth. This morning when I

went through hair and makeup, they did my hair in two braids and then told me

to open my mouth wide. I did as I was told, and the makeup person dripped

brown juice-like gunk into my mouth, explaining that she was doing it to make

my teeth look rotten. The gunk dried quickly and felt disgusting, what I imagine

it’d feel like if I didn’t brush for a month. It’s felt that way the whole day since,

and I hate it. I can’t help but run my tongue along the gunk because it’s so

bothersome and distracting.

“You don’t look happy to be here. Try and look happy to be here,” Mom says

as we both enter the background-designated trailer bathroom. I’d been holding

my poop for an hour and couldn’t hold it anymore, so I nally asked a person

with a walkie-talkie if I could please go, even though Mom tells me I might be

labeled dicult for doing so.

“Sorry,” I say while I poop and Mom wets a paper towel with water. I’m

embarrassed she still insists on wiping my butt. I tried to tell her recently that

now that I’m eight, I think I can handle it, but she looked like she was gonna cry

and said she needs to do it until I’m at least ten because she doesn’t want skid

marks on my Pocahontas underwear. I know if I did it there wouldn’t be skid

marks, but it’s Mom’s tears I’m more worried about.

“Just stop frowning, okay?” Mom asks, to ensure I’ve heard her request.

“Your eyebrows are all bent in and angry-looking.”

Wipe. Wipe. Wipe.

“Okay.”

I get back out to my dirt pile and try to look the opposite of how I feel, but

it’s hard with the sun being so bright. I can’t help but squint.

“Where’s the sad-looking kid, the one I pointed out earlier? Let’s just use

her,” the director shouts to the assistant director.

The AD points to various children, and the director shakes his head no until

the AD points to me.

“Yeah, her.” The director nods.

“Come on, come with me,” the AD says, taking my hand and walking me

toward the director.

The director tells me to sit in an old-timey car, look o slightly to my right,

and “do nothing.” I nod. After a few takes, he says he got the shot.

The AD walks me to Mom, who’s waiting near the background crafty table.

He says that I’m done for the day because they used me in a key shot so I can’t be

in the background anymore.

“A key shot?” Mom asks, clearly excited.

“Yeah. Actually, I have to bring over some fresh paperwork because it’s

technically a principal role.”

Mom’s almost shaking with joy. “How did this happen?”

“Well, the little girl we hired wouldn’t take direction—she just kept smiling

no matter how many times we told her to look sad. But not your daughter. She’s

got a great sad face,” he laughs.

“She does. She does have a great sad face,” Mom says, nodding and beaming

and seeming to forget that a half hour ago that sad face was the very thing she

was trying to get rid of.

“Anyway, we used your daughter for the role instead, so now she’s technically

a principal performer.”

The AD peels o to grab the new paperwork, and Mom turns to me and

grabs my hands in hers.

“They used you, Net! They used you!”

Mom gets home and calls Academy Kids immediately to gush about my

principal contract. They tell Mom this is great news, that this means I’m

establishing a reputation as a kid who cooperates and takes direction, two of the

most benecial traits of a child actor. They tell Mom they’re going to look for

longer-running background jobs for me—“core background” jobs. These are the

kinds of jobs you can’t get when you’re new to extra work because the extras

casting director doesn’t know your reputation yet. Mom looks perturbed at the

news.

“Core background? That just sounds like a gloried extra. What about

principal roles? They just hired her as a principal for Golden Dreams, so can’t she

start auditioning for principal roles?”

“Well not quite yet. We want to get a bit more experience under her belt and

then we can reassess.”

Mom says all right, but I can tell she doesn’t like that answer.

“Reassess my ass,” Mom says while she’s hanging up the phone. I always

worry the person on the other end of the line hasn’t yet hung up when Mom’s

complaining about them, but so far it’s luckily never seemed to be an issue.

Mom’s a bit tense for the rest of the night, but by the next morning she

swings into a good mood when Academy Kids calls to say they got me a part as a

“core background performer” for an upcoming pilot. Eight days of work.

“You might be a gloried extra for now, baby,” Mom says to me as she

brushes her teeth. “But if we keep going, you’ll be a bona de principal

performer soon enough.”

She spits in the sink.

“I think that’s how you use ‘bona de,’ I’m not sure.”

THE PILOT SHOOT GOES WELL, and while I never get upgraded from gloried

extra, there is one event on the shoot that gets me closer to Mom’s goal of me

becoming a principal performer.

There’s a principal actress my age with a mother who takes a liking to Mom.

That mother gives Mom the number of her daughter’s agent, Barbara Cameron.

“Barbara Cameron, Net! Barbara Freaking Cameron!”

“Yay!”

“Do you know who that is?”

“No.”

“She’s the mother of several famous kids. Several. Kirk Cameron from

Growing Pains, Candace Cameron from Full House. She’s their mom. And she

managed them. So then she started managing kids who weren’t her own. And

now she’s one of the biggest youth reps out there. Really cool lady.”

Mom calls Barbara immediately to set up an audition for me and my oldest

brother Marcus, who she recently convinced to give acting a try despite his initial

resistance.

“C’mon, you’ve got a great smile, such big teeth,” she said. “And lots of

moles. Young Matt Damon.”

I secretly envy Dustin and Scottie. I don’t understand why Mom has dierent

expectations of them than she does of Marcus and me. I wish I knew the answer

to this, but it feels like one of those things that you just don’t talk about as a

family. It feels like one of those things that are just silently agreed upon.

Barbara works from home. The audition takes place at her house. When we

arrive, Marcus and I are each given monologues that we have a half hour to work

on before coming back and performing them. I don’t know what movies the

monologues are from, but Marcus is playing a high school sophomore whose

girlfriend committed suicide and I’m playing a little girl who’s trying to convince

her parents not to get a divorce.

Mom runs the monologues with us in the car, and then we go back inside

one-by-one to do our auditions.

Marcus goes rst. He’s in there for about a half hour. When he comes out,

he’s in a good mood. He says Barbara and the other woman in the room were

both talkative and laughed a lot.

I walk inside. I’m shaking. I do my monologue once. Barbara and the other

woman exchange a look, then ask me to do it again, but just “throw it away.” I’m

puzzled.

“Be more casual,” Barbara claries.

I try it again. The other woman shrugs at Barbara. Barbara makes an “eh”

face.

“Thank you,” they say simultaneously.

I walk out as slowly as I can, hoping I can add an extra few minutes to my

exit, since I know Mom will be disappointed if I was only in there for as short as

I was. Even with my best slow-walk, I only add on a minute. I get to the car and

Mom looks concerned.

“Well?”

“It went okay.”

“Were they talkative?”

“Not really…”

“Did they laugh at things you said?”

“Not really…”

“Huh.”

On the drive home, I can tell Mom’s disappointed. She seems proud and

excited about Marcus, but I know how to read her, and I can tell she’s forcing it.

That pride and excitement in Marcus is overshadowed by her disappointment in

me.

“We like Marcus a lot; we want to take him on as a client. But Jennette—she

just… lacks charisma.”

The person delivering the news is Laura, the woman who was in the room

with Barbara. Laura is Barbara’s second-in-command and the only other agent

working for the company. She’s sharp and quick, a no-nonsense type, with a

voice loud enough that I can hear it through the phone as Mom talks to her

while stirring our ramen dinner.

“That’s great about Marcus, but what if you just sign Jennette and if she

hasn’t booked anything in six months, you can drop her?” Mom pleads, then

gives me a thumbs-up like she’s pumped about her own idea.

“We already have a lot of young female talent….” Laura trails o.

“She’s a quick learner and she takes direction well,” Mom says in a singsongy

way, like she’s trying to tempt Laura. It’s such a mismatched tone for a beggar.

Laura says she’s going to check with Barbara and call right back with an

answer. Mom turns to me.

“Net, say a quick prayer for Barbara to accept you. And fold your arms for

the both of us, since I need mine to stir,” she says. I take on proper Mormon

prayer form. We both shut our eyes.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” I start. “Thank you for this beautiful day and for all

of our many blessings—”

“Shit!” Mom says.

My eyes y open. Mom drops the spoon she was stirring with and starts

sucking on her nger. She turns on the faucet to run the cool water over it.

“Burnt my nger,” she says to me, explaining. “Go on, sweetie, keep going.”

I nod and return to my prayer.

“Please bless that Barbara Cameron accepts me. Please bless that we have a

good rest of the night. Please bless that Mommy sleeps well since she struggles

with that sometimes. Thank you, Heavenly Father. In the name of Jesus Christ,

amen.”

“Amen, sweetheart. Good job.”

Mom starts pouring the ramen into bowls when the phone rings again. She

drops the pot into the sink. It makes a loud thud and some ramen broth splatters

onto the counter, but Mom doesn’t notice. She’s too focused.

“Uh-huh,” she says, sounding upbeat. I can’t hear Laura on the other end of

the phone this time because Mom is pacing back and forth to cope with how

antsy she is.

“Uh-huh,” she says again, eyeing me. This whole thing is making me very

uncomfortable.

“Great, you won’t regret this,” Mom says as she hangs up the phone. She

looks at me for a long time as pure joy lls her eyes.

“What?” I ask.

“Barbara Cameron accepted you. She wants you to take a weekly acting class

to get more comfortable with yourself, something like that, but she accepted

you.”

Mom shakes her head in awe and pride. She breathes a sigh of relief, then

pulls me into a hug.

“You’re a principal actor now, sweetheart. No more background for my

baby.”

I HATE ACTING CLASS. I’M two months into the one Barbara Cameron insisted I

a.m. to two thirty p.m. Even though it’s a chunk of time away from home, I

don’t look forward to this class the same way I look forward to church because I

nd acting even more uncomfortable than being stuck at home.

Each class starts out with a bit of “loosening up.” The dozen of us walk

around mimicking Miss Lasky. That’s Laura’s last name. Not only is she

Barbara’s second-in-command, she’s also our acting teacher. She stretches her

face out in weird contortions, opening her mouth freakishly wide or bulging her

eyes out. I have no idea how this helps us act better, but I know better than to be

an annoying kid who asks questions.

“You have to always be ‘on’ in class,” Mom reminds me on every one of our

drives home. “Miss Lasky’s watching. And the kids who are annoying, don’t take

direction, ask questions—those are the kids who won’t get sent out on

auditions. The kids who will get auditions are the ones who shut up and do as

they’re told.”

After the face gymnastics, we pretend to be various animals. Some of the

other kids seem to have fun with it, but it makes me feel like an idiot. I don’t

know how to trumpet like an elephant, purr like a kitten, or grunt like a monkey

and frankly, I don’t want to. Let’s leave the animal sounds to the animals.

Sometimes Miss Lasky has everyone freeze, and then she points to one kid to

do the animal sound solo. It’s supposed to help with getting over our inhibitions

or something.

“Trumpet, Jennette! Trumpet like you mean it!”

I don’t mean it, but I try my best. I’m humiliated.

After the dreaded animal sounds, we move on to memorization technique.

We’re given a scene and we have thirty minutes to memorize our character’s

lines, then we go one-by-one spewing our lines “cold,” the showbiz term for

“rapid and without emotion.” We’re told this technique is important, especially

for kids, so that we don’t overwork the material and sound too rehearsed in

auditions. Apparently, memorizing a thing “cold” so we have it down pat, and

then adding in the emotions later is the best way to keep the scene fresh.

Memorizing is the part of class that I dislike the least, maybe because I’m best

at it. I usually memorize my lines within fteen minutes and then just spend the

next fteen going over them to solidify them. I also don’t mind saying words

without emotions. The emotions are the problem, the words aren’t. Forcing

emotions into a thing is uncomfortable in the rst place, but then putting on

those emotions for other people to see feels gross to me. It feels weak and

vulnerable and naked. I don’t want people to see me like that.

After memorization comes scene work, my least favorite part of the class

because it’s the part where I have to perform. Each week, in preparation for scene

work, we’re assigned a scene that we have to memorize and break down.

Breaking a scene down is a process where we ask questions about our character

and the scene and what’s really being said underneath the words on the page.

What does my character actually want? What does the character I’m interacting

with actually want? How are these things at odds? How does my character feel

about the character I’m interacting with? After breaking the scene down, we

have to rehearse it enough that it’s ready to perform in front of the rest of the

class come Saturday.

Each of us gets up one at a time, performs our scene, then goes through our

breakdown with Miss Lasky. I wish so much that I didn’t have to do this part. I

don’t like sitting up on the little studio stage, acting out a scene in front of

everyone. I don’t like to be observed. I like to do the observing.

Miss Lasky said in our rst class that no parents were allowed for the scene

work portion, but Mom insisted.

“I had stage four metastatic ductal carcinoma—breast cancer—and my bones

are weak from the chemo. Sitting in the car for too long pains me, and I’m not

supposed to walk around in the hot sun.”

“Well, there’s a coee shop right up the street,” Miss Lasky said with a tense

smile.

“I don’t believe in spending two fty on a cup of joe,” Mom said with a

tenser one.

And that was that. Mom’s been the only parent sitting in on the scene

breakdown portion since the beginning of class. I’m glad Mom gets what she

wants, to watch me act. But it does add stress to me. I can feel her judgments and

see her reactions out of the side of my eye. She mouths my lines as I say them and

overanimates her facial expression when she wants me to mimic it. It’s dicult

to perform while navigating Mom’s sideline coaching at the same time.

When class is over, I feel a huge wave of relief wash over me because Mom

gives me the rest of the day o. I don’t have to look at my scene for next week

until tomorrow. For tonight, I’m free.

10.

“I DON’T WANNA SAY THAT word,” I tell Mom as we look over my lines for an

upcoming audition for Mad TV. The sketch is a parody on Kathie Lee Giord

and her two children—I’m trying out to be the parody version of Kathie’s

daughter.

“It has multiple dierent meanings. Sometimes it just means happy. It’s in

Christmas songs, for crying out loud. ‘Don we now our gay apparel,’ ” Mom sing-

talks.

I know Mom partially sympathizes with me or she wouldn’t be

overexplaining herself the way that she is.

“Do I have to say it?”

“Yes, Net, it’s one of your rst speaking-role auditions. We’ve gotta go on all

these so Barbara knows you’re not dicult. Plus, we need you to book

something so she keeps sending you out.”

I thumb the pages in front of me.

“Look, we can get ice cream afterward if you do a good job, okay? We’ve got

that coupon Sister Johnson gave out in primary class.”

“Okay.”

It’s the next day and I’m waiting to go in for my audition. The room is small.

The walls are white and there’s nothing on them. Fellow auditioners and their

mothers sit in foldout chairs or stand with their backs against the walls. All the

girls are blond. All the moms are anxious.

A casting person comes out to get me. My mouth is dry the way it always is

before auditions, and I have to pee even though I already peed four times. I think

it’s the sugar-free Red Bulls Mom has me drink before comedy auditions because

she says I just don’t have comedy energy otherwise.

“Jennette McCurdy,” the casting person calls out. I swallow.

“Here!” I say excitedly, the way Mom instructed me to.

“Come on back,” the casting person says with a gesture.

Mom swats my butt supportively.

“You’ve got this, Net. You’re better than all these other girls!”

I see one of my competitors look down, sad. Her mother comforts her. I

follow the casting director into the casting room, where two men are sitting.

“Whenever you’re ready,” one of them says.

The casting director says her line, then I say my rst of two.

“You’re old.”

The men burst into laughter. I must’ve done well. My mouth’s still dry. I’m

nervous about saying the word. Here comes my next line, the line that the word

is in.

“Gelman, you are so gay.”

More laughter. I’m done. I go out to meet Mom in the waiting room.

“So what’d they say?” Mom asks while we stand in line at Baskin-Robbins.

“They said I was funny.”

“That’s right, my baby’s funny. And serious, too, when she needs to be. She’s

got it all. You want Nutty Coconut?”

“Um, no, I think I’ll do Cookies ’N Cream.”

Mom turns to me, alarmed.

“You don’t want Nutty Coconut?”

I’m frozen. I don’t know what to say. Mom seems upset that I haven’t chosen

Nutty Coconut. I pause, waiting to see how she reacts before making my next

move. There’s a beat where we’re both just standing at the ice cream counter

looking at each other instead of at the ice cream. Then Mom’s posture softens

and her eyes well with tears.

“Nutty Coconut’s been your favorite for eight months. You’re changing.

Growing up.”

I take her hand in mine.

“Never mind. I want Nutty Coconut.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” I nod.

Mom orders a kids’ scoop for us to share and hands the coupon to the

teenage employee with so much black makeup around her eyes that she looks

like a raccoon. We sit at one of the little booths to enjoy the ice cream together.

I’m secretly sick of the coconut avor but I’m sure to make lots of mmms so

Mom thinks I love it. A few bites in, Mom’s little gray pager starts buzzing. She

got this pager for herself as a Christmas gift so she could know the second

Barbara needed to get ahold of her. Like right now.

“It’s Barbara! I have a page from Barbara!”

Mom hops up and bounds over to the ice cream counter. I stop eating the ice

cream since Mom’s not watching me.

“Do you have a phone back there?” Mom asks the employee.

“Yes, but it’s for employee use only,” Raccoon Eyes says in a monotone.

“My daughter is an actress and she might have just booked her rst speaking

role on a show called Mad TV. Have you heard of Mad TV? It’s supposedly

very funny. The more underground SNL. Is there any way I can use your—”

“Sure, go ahead and use it,” the employee says, bored.

Mom reaches across the counter and starts dialing Barbara’s number, which

she knows by heart. Mom glances over at me with her ngers crossed. I take a

bite of the ice cream.

“Ahhhh!!” Mom screams. The employee plugs her ears. “Net, you booked it!

You booked Mad TV!”

Mom hangs up with Barbara and rushes over to me. She pulls me into a tight

squeeze. I love the smell of her warm skin mixed with her Wings perfume. I’m so

happy she’s happy.

“This is fantastic, Net. Your rst speaking role. This is big stu. Big stu.”

Mom kisses me on the forehead excitedly, then digs her spoon into the ice

cream, nishing o the last of the Nutty Coconut. I’m glad I don’t have to.

11.

“YOU LOOK SO PRETTY,” I tell Mom.

She stands in front of the bathroom mirror doing her makeup while I brush

her hair. She likes when I do this. She says it’s comforting. Soothing.

“Thanks, Angel. Karen’s gorgeous though. She looks like a beauty queen.”

Mom puts the cap on her tube of lipstick and rubs her lips together to spread the

plum color over both of them. I think her natural color is so much prettier.

“You look like a beauty queen too,” I say, partially because I do believe it, but

mainly to reassure Mom. She doesn’t have many friends her age, and the ones

she does have she hardly sees. So the fact that she’s meeting up with one of them

today for lunch is a big deal.

Karen is Mom’s best friend from high school, and after they graduated, they

went to beauty school together. Mom’s relationship with her seems complicated.

One minute she’ll say Karen is this amazing person and so wonderful and so

sweet, and then the next she’ll say that Karen is actually kind of a B-I-T-C-H.

“We’re not supposed to say that word.”

“I’m just spelling it, Net, plus God would understand if he knew Karen. Did

I ever tell you about how she stole my baby’s name?” Mom asks while she

spritzes herself with perfume.

“Uh-huh,” I say while I keep brushing.

Mom looks down. I can tell I hurt her feelings. She’s told me this story so

many times before, but here she is wanting to tell it to me again. And that’s okay.

She just wants to be heard.

“But I could hear it again.”

“So I had the name all picked out,” Mom launches in immediately. “Jason. I

thought it was a good name. Sturdy. Not too common, but also not weird like

some of these new kids’ names. Lagoon or whatever. And you’re not supposed

to tell anyone ’cuz it’s bad luck, you know? You’re not supposed to tell anyone

the baby name you’ve chosen.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Are you listening, Net? You seem like you spaced out.”

“I’m listening.”

“So you’re not supposed to tell anyone, but I did. I told Karen because I

gured she’s my best friend and she wanted to know, plus we were pregnant at

the same time so we were going through all that stu together. Well, lo and

behold, she pops out her kid rst, and what name does she choose? Jason. She

stole my name.”

“I like the name Marcus better anyway,” I tell her. “It’s more unique.”

“Oh I know it is, but it’s just the principle.”

“Oh I know,” I agree.

Mom takes a deep breath and brushes her eyelashes with a third coat of

mascara.

“Anyway, I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her, but she’s still a good

friend.”

This logic confuses me so I just say, “Uh-huh.”

“Not my best friend though,” Mom continues. “You’re my best friend, Net.

You’re Mommy’s best friend.”

I beam. I’m so happy to be her best friend. To be the closest person in the

world to her. This is my purpose. I feel whole.

“Why’d ya quit brushing?”

I return to the task.

12.

“WELL, THIS MORNING IS GOING to hell in a handbasket!” Mom shouts as she

chucks a dish into the sink. I inch at the sound but head to the kitchen

regardless. Someone’s gotta help Mom, and most everyone else is still asleep.

“Maybe if somebody else did the damned dishes for once!” she shouts again,

slamming down a mug. The handle breaks o it. She throws the mug pieces into

a Ziploc bag, to preserve the memory.

“I’ll do them, Mommy,” I say carefully, not wanting to aggravate her any

further.

“Oh no, not you, sweetie,” Mom says, reaching out to stroke my hair with her

dish-soapy hands. “I don’t want you to get prune ngers. That won’t do you any

good. Who’s gonna wanna cast a little girl with prune ngers?”

“Okay.”

“Mark! Can you take Jennette to dance?! I need to nish the dishes so I can

take her to acting class!”

Dad heads toward us from the living room. He steps over a sleeping Dustin

and Scottie on their Costco mats.

“Huh?” he asks once he nally gets into the kitchen.

“Jennette’s dance class, can you take her?”

“Sure,” he says plainly.

“Try not to be too enthusiastic,” Mom says.

“Sorry.”

“Well don’t apologize for everything. Just hurry. You have to leave in twenty

to get her there on time.”

Mom signed me up for a rigorous schedule of dance classes after I had an

audition for a Paula Abdul dance special and did terribly. All the other girls at

the audition were doing splits and twirling three and four times in a row, but I

didn’t know how to do any of that. We were taught a minute of choreography

and, even though I’m good at memorizing lines, the two types of memorizing

are clearly unrelated because I couldn’t remember one move. Mom told me she

never wanted me to be humiliated like that again, so she signed me up for

fourteen dance classes a week—two each of jazz, ballet, lyrical, musical theater,

and hip-hop, plus one of stretching and three of tap—and told me two

background jobs a month will cover the costs.

I actually like dance. A lot. I like moving my body, it gets me out of my head.

And I like most of the girls I dance with—they’ve been nice and welcoming to

me. I secretly like being away from Mom, too—she doesn’t watch me dance the

way she watches me act. Maybe it’s because she didn’t want to be a dancer

growing up, she wanted to be an actress, and maybe Mom only sits in when I’m

being the thing she wanted to be. I don’t know. Regardless, even though I would

never mention it to her, it feels good that she’s not around. It’s a relief. I don’t

have to worry about constantly being monitored.

Dad has taken me to dance class a few times before. I’m excited because when

Mom takes me, I never know if she’s gonna yell at someone or complain to the

dance studio owner that my part in the ballet isn’t big enough or whatever. Dad

doesn’t do stu like that. He doesn’t even seem aware of stu like that. He just

kinda… exists.

“Do you wanna bike to dance class?” Dad asks me.

“Yes!” I say, honestly thrilled. I think about asking Mom, but then I don’t

because I don’t want to give her a chance to say no.

Dad and I don’t get much time together since he works his two jobs at Home

Depot and Hollywood Video. He usually gets home late and goes right into the

back room to get some sleep. Even though the room is full of stu, there’s a

sliver of bed stu-less enough for one person to sleep on, so that’s where Dad

goes. He also goes back there because Mom says there’s no way she’s sleeping in

the same bed—or even the same room—as someone who disgusts her so much.

So since Mom’s in the living room on the couch or a Costco mat with us, it

makes sense that Dad’s in the farthest room possible.

On top of that, I’m busy with my acting career and schoolwork (even though

Mom homeschools us, we still have to turn in samples once a month to the state

to prove we’re learning things) and now dance classes too.

The few times we do spend together stick out since they don’t happen that

often. Like when Dad was able to come to my eighth birthday party at the public

swimming pool—the rst birthday party of mine he’d been to in a few years due

to his work schedule. He gave me a birthday card, which he had never done

before. He spelled my name wrong on the envelope. People spell my name

wrong all the time, and I usually don’t think much of it, but that time it made

me sad. I opened the card to see what he wrote inside. That’s the more

important part anyway. “Love, Dad” was all he wrote underneath the poem in

the card. I was even more sad, but it’s the thought that counts, and the fact that

he had the thought meant something to me. Until on our way home I heard

Mom say, “Did you get her a birthday card like I told you to? You should be

nurturing a relationship with her, like a FATHER does.” So it was really Mom’s

thought all along.

The other times we spend together are a bit more routine, like when Dad gets

o work a little early and watches a rerun of MacGyver or Gilligan’s Island with

us, or when he makes a stew on Sunday after church. Each time he makes one

it’s apparently a dierent stew—beef, corn chowder, chili, split pea—but I swear

they all taste like lentil. These times with Dad are decent but never anything

special. I wish I felt connected to Dad the way I feel connected to Mom. Being

around Mom can be tiring, sure, but at least I know what to do to make her

happy. Around Dad, I never really know. It’s less work, but it’s also less

rewarding.

But today I’m excited that he’s pitched this idea to go bike riding. I know he

loves riding his bike, the one he inherited from his dad when he died.

“A bike is no home,” Mom complained. “Guess we’ll have to wait ’til

Grandma Faye passes too, though that doesn’t seem to be anytime soon. Eighty-

two and her health is better than ever.” Then she clicked her tongue the way she

often does when she’s annoyed.

I like riding my bike too, the one that my aunt Linda sent me for my seventh

birthday but that I can still t on if I hunch over a bit. Maybe today Dad and I

can make a good memory together. Maybe today we can have a fun time.

So we pile onto our bikes and ride to the Dance Factory in Los Alamitos, the

next town over from us. We stop at the park on Orangewood and do a quick

round of monkey bars. Dad’s smiling like he’s having a good time. And I know

I’m having one. This is good.

We get to the Dance Factory ten minutes late for my class. They don’t allow

you to enter past fteen, but I’m allowed in with nothing more than a stink eye

from the teacher. I’ll take it.

Class goes by quickly and we’re released into the waiting room to greet our

parents. I see Dad sitting on the bench with his legs crossed the way Mom

doesn’t like, eating a Clif Bar.

“Where’d you get that?” I ask, fearing that I already know the answer.

“The snack table at the front of the studio.”

“Mom says no snacks from the snack table ’cuz they’re too expensive.”

“It was a buck.”

“Exactly.”

“Yesterday was payday,” Dad says with a wave of his hand, and then leads me

outside to our bikes.

We hop on and ride home, past the empty Los Alamitos High School and

Polly’s Pies. Dad takes a right turn into an outdoor shopping center and pedals

up to a smoothie shop.

“Where are we going?”

“Let’s get smoothies.”

“Smoothies are expe—”

“Payday,” Dad reminds me.

Somewhere in the middle of the smoothie-maker blending the strawberry-

banana smoothie Dad and I are gonna split, my stomach drops with a

realization. In all the excitement and bonding with Dad, I forgot. I forgot I had

acting class. I forgot that we would never make it in time if we rode bikes.

But now I remember. In the middle of a painfully loud blender blending up

various fruits, I remember. I look at Dad.

“A little extra lemon juice, if you can,” he says over the counter as he eyes the

lemon in the smoothie-maker’s hand.

I wonder if Dad knows. If he purposely had us take our bikes and stop for

smoothies because he knows that I hate acting class. Maybe he wants to help me.

Maybe he wants to save me.

“Eeeeeven more lemon,” he reiterates.

I decide that I’m crazy for thinking this way. Dad’s clearly more focused on

the amount of lemon in his smoothie than he is on my well-being.

I debate reminding him of acting class, that we need to hurry and even still

I’ll be late. But then I decide not to. Why should I? I’m enjoying my time with

Dad despite the disconnect. I’m enjoying the ease, so I say nothing.

We nish up the smoothie and pedal back slowly. We stop at the park again

and ride on the swings. By the time we get home it’s 11:05. Mom’s pacing in the

front yard, jangling her keys like it’s a threat.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!” she screams.

Bud, our nosey neighbor, pokes his head over the fence. I wonder if he’s

gonna threaten to call social services again, like he did the last time Mom was

screaming on the front lawn. I pray Mom keeps her voice down so he doesn’t.

“We stopped for a smoothie,” Dad says with a shrug, slow on the uptake.

“YOU STOPPED FOR A SMOOTHIE??” Mom’s furious.

I wave at Bud to let him know at least someone can see him watching. He

ducks down below the fence.

“Yeah…” Dad says, trying to gure out why Mom’s upset.

Mom storms into the house and slams the door shut behind her. Dad follows

after her, and I trail behind him.

“Deb, come on…”

Mom’s in the kitchen by now, opening and closing appliance doors—rst the

fridge, then the oven, then the microwave. I don’t know why she’s doing this,

what she’s looking for, but there’s a wildness to her gestures that scares me.

“I told you Jennette had acting class. But she MISSED IT NOW. They were

doing a scene from I Am Sam this week. I AM SAM, Mark. Jennette would’ve

KILLED that.”

Mom kicks in a cupboard door. Her foot gets stuck in the wood. She yanks

her foot out. The wood is fragmented and splintery.

“I’m sorry,” Dad says.

“I guess she doesn’t have to act that one since it’s her REAL LIFE. A WISE

LITTLE GIRL with a RETARDED DAD.”

13.

THERE’S A LOT OF TALK about big breaks in Hollywood, but so far I haven’t

experienced that. Instead, I’ve experienced a bunch of little breaks that trickle in

just as I’m almost positive I won’t catch one again. Mom says Hollywood’s like a

bad boyfriend.

“They keep stringing you along without making any type of formal

commitment.”

I’m not exactly sure what this means, but it sounds right.

So far, my little breaks since Mad TV have been these:

A commercial for Dental Land. The dentist’s oce we shot the commercial

in was in a Westeld Shopping Mall, so we got to spend the lunch break

walking around the mall, and Mom got me a grab bag from Sanrio

Surprises for being “by far the best actor of the group.” We were all just

sitting down for the commercial, so I’m not sure what gave Mom the idea

that I was a better actor than everyone else, but I’ll take the compliment if it

gets me a Sanrio grab bag.

A low-budget independent movie called Shadow Fury. Mom complained

because I wasn’t even paid a principal’s salary. “My baby deserves a proper

salary when she spends Halloween crouched over a fake dying man with

sugar blood running down her arms.” In the scene, my fake dad gets shot

and I hear the gunshot from upstairs, come downstairs, and cradle his head

while he dies in my arms. The sugar blood was not the worst part of it,

despite how sticky and uncomfortable it was. The worst part by far was the

mic pack. The budget was so low that they didn’t have a proper waistband

for the mic pack so they just duct-taped it to my body. At the end of the

night, I cried while they peeled the duct tape o me, but we got home in

time to catch the two thirty a.m. rerun of Conan O’Brien, and Mom

smeared aloe vera gel on my body while we watched it, so it wasn’t all bad.

A role in an episode of Malcolm in the Middle. This one was particularly

exciting because it was my rst guest-star role instead of co-star. Co-star

roles are usually fteen lines or less and credited at the end of the episode;

guest-star roles are typically more signicant and credited at the beginning.

The episode was about the mom character dreaming of having girls instead

of boys. I played the female Dewey aka Daisy. They put hard wax behind

my ears to make them poke out more because they said the trademark of

Dewey is that he has big ears that poke out and that I have small ones. The

wax was bulky and made the backs of my ears really sore, but I liked the

studio where we shot the episode and the producer was very kind to me. I

thought Frankie Muniz was nice to look at and I liked when he said hi to

me in the hallways. I felt like I was being pretty discreet about my feelings

until Mom snapped at me. “Don’t even think about it. He’s way too old for

you. And more important, not Mormon.”

A Sprint PCS commercial—my rst national commercial, which means…

residuals! Enough residuals to pay for the oak bunk bed I bought for myself.

Mom did as she’d promised and cleared the space in Grandma and

Grandpa’s room for my bed. She wound up lling the top bunk with stacks

of papers and old toys and books and things, though, which was a little

frustrating since I had initially wanted to sleep on the top bunk. Mom said

it was too risky anyway and that she never would’ve let me. “We can’t risk

you falling out and cracking your head open, like when Dustin fell out of

the stroller at Knott’s Berry Farm! I’ve never forgiven myself for that and I’d

never forgive myself for this. Even though they did give us some free

boysenberry punch, which was nice.”

Aside from the little breaks, there have been a lot of sub–little breaks, or hints

at little breaks. I get callbacks for around 75 percent of the roles I audition for,

which Barbara says is a good sign even if I’m not booking.

“She’s clearly doing something right,” Barbara says to Mom on the phone.

(Barbara has started taking Mom’s calls instead of Laura. Moving on up!)

“Just not right enough,” Mom always adds.

“She’ll get there. I’m telling you, she’ll get there,” Barbara says. “You’ve just

gotta be a little patient.”

Mom hangs up, exasperated.

“Heavenly Father, please grant me patience. And be quick.”

14.

“OKAY, JENNETTE, WE’RE GONNA HAVE a quick conversation with the director

and then we’ll come and get you,” the casting director tells me. I nod. My leg

starts bouncing nervously. I can’t get it to stop.

I’m sitting in a room waiting to go in for my fourth callback for Princess

Paradise Park, the current hot family drama lm to audition for if you’re an

actress between seven and ten years old. Apparently thousands of girls

auditioned, but the role is now down to me and one other girl. It’s the closest

I’ve been to a project this big.

I have my seventeen pages of lines down pat thanks to Mom’s help.

Sometimes when we’re running errands together, she’ll just say “Go!” and I’ll

know what that means because, even though I’ve had a few other auditions over

this monthlong audition process for Princess, this is the audition that’s the most

demanding, and the role I’m closest to getting. This is the one Mom cares about

the most.

“Barbara says since it’s a studio lm, the role would make you a star,” Mom

tells me every time I get another callback. “You’d just get oers from then on. No

more auditioning.”

No more auditioning does sound good. As I’m sitting here waiting to go in, I

start fantasizing about how good it would be to not have to do the thing that

cripples me with nervousness. To not have the constant nagging pressure of

being chosen, and the sadness that comes with not being chosen. I’m in the

middle of my fantasy when I hear Him, loud and clear in my mind.

“Jennette, I, the spirit of the Holy Ghost, command you to cross your name

out on the sign-in sheet, go to the restroom, touch your underwear band ve

times in a row, twirl on one foot, unlock and relock the bathroom door ve

times, come back, and re-sign in on the sign-in sheet.”

I’m elated. He has spoken. The Holy Ghost, aka my Still Small Voice, has

nally spoken to me. I’ve been waiting for Him to speak to me since my eighth

birthday when I had my baptism.

The Gift of the Holy Ghost was denitely the gift I was most excited for. A

friend from church did get me some gooey slime, though, which was a close

second.

The Holy Ghost is a great guy up in heaven who helps out Heavenly Father

and Jesus. He’s kind of like them, in spirit and attitude, but he’s dierent, too,

because he lives in each and every one of us Mormons. And every day we can talk

to him whenever we want to, and he can talk to us, guiding us to do what is

right, which is whatever he tells us to do. We’re so lucky.

My rst few weeks of having The Gift of the Holy Ghost were

underwhelming. Maybe even disappointing, but I never told that to anybody at

church. Whenever anyone asked me if I’d been communicating with my Still

Small Voice, the Holy Ghost in me, I’d say yes, we’d been having all sorts of great

conversations. And then they’d ask what the conversations had been like, what

I’d been learning, and I’d say that I couldn’t tell them because the conversations

were private.

But that’s not the truth. The truth is that I happily would have told any and

everyone what my conversations with the Holy Ghost had been like if I’d had

them. But I hadn’t had any. And I didn’t know why. I’d prayed privately every

morning, afternoon, and night, on my knees even, to hear the Holy Ghost. Even

though Mormons aren’t accountable for our sins until we’re eight years old, so I

knew I hadn’t had a ton of time to really screw things up, I wondered if

somehow I had.

Why haven’t I heard the Holy Ghost? I’d ask in my prayers. Is there something

I’ve done wrong that has made me not deserve him? Is it my impure thoughts about

Frankie Muniz? Please forgive me and send me The Gift of the Holy Ghost,

whenever you get around to it. I know you’re busy, but I’m desperate here. I want to

hear what he sounds like and what he tells me to do. Thanks.

My prayers didn’t work for a long time. Months. But now, today, at my nal

callback for Princess Paradise Park, here He is.

Okay, Holy Ghost, and why do you want me to do these things? I ask in my

mind.

“To ensure that you do well at your Princess Paradise Park callback. If you do

what I tell you to do, you will eventually book the role. When this happens, your

mother will be happy and all of your family’s problems will be solved.”

Wow. I love how direct he is. I jump up out of my seat to accomplish the list

of tasks he ordered me to do.

“Where are you going?” Mom asks me.

“I have to pee,” I tell her as I cross my name out on the sign-in sheet. She

follows me into the bathroom and then into the stall. I touch my underwear

band ve times.

“What are you doing, Net?” Mom asks me, looking concerned.

“The Holy Ghost talked to me!” I tell her excitedly, sure this will assuage her

worries. I twirl on my left foot.

“Uh-huh,” Mom says.

“He talked to me!” I tell her again. She must’ve not heard me or she’d be just

as excited as I am. I unlock and relock the bathroom door ve times while she

watches.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask her.

She pauses and looks a little sad. “Nothing.”

We head back into the waiting room and I re-sign in.

Thank you, Holy Ghost. Thank you.

15.

“YOUR EYELASHES ARE INVISIBLE, OKAY? You think Dakota Fanning doesn’t tint

hers?”

Mom is tinting my eyelashes with the over-the-counter brown eyelash tint she

picks up from Rite Aid once a month or so, during the same trip where she picks

up the L’Oréal blond highlights, the three-dollar tube of clear mascara, and the

store-brand version of Crest Whitestrips. It’s the “maintenance trip” as she calls

it—the trip dedicated solely to the enhancement of my “natural beauty.”

Mom calls it “natural beauty,” what I have. She says my eyelashes are long,

but so light that it looks like I don’t have any. She says that my hair has golden

highlights, but only toward the bottom and that it’s important I have some

golden highlights around my face, too, to frame it. She says that my hair is very

thick, which is good, but that it has a mind of its own, which is bad, and that it

needs to be tamed. She says I have a good smile but my teeth aren’t quite white

enough. Each “good” thing Mom says about my “natural beauty” is followed up

by its downside, which serves as the justication for its need to be enhanced by a

little good old-fashioned store-bought beauty. And since it seems like every

single “naturally beautiful” thing about me comes with a downside that needs to

be enhanced by store-bought beauty, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m really

naturally beautiful at all, or if Mom’s use of the term “naturally beautiful” goes

in the same place where others would just use the term “ugly.”

“Ow!”

“Ow what?” Mom asks, because there are a variety of things that could be

owing me right now.

Little paper eye patches are tucked up under my eyes, just on the lash line to

the point where they could be poking my eyeballs, which could be ow-worthy.

(Mom tucks them nice and tight and keeps them in place with Vaseline because

she doesn’t want the brown eyelash tint to drip on my skin and tint it.)

What feels like one thousand sheets of foil are folded into all the layers of my

hair. There are so many layers and so much foil that my hair is extending

outward nearly horizontally around me. There are two potential ows with this—

the foils could be tugging at my roots and causing pain, or the fumes from the

bleach could be burning my eyes.

The knocko Crest Whitestrips are cupping my teeth and even though

they’re only supposed to stay on for fteen minutes, Mom keeps them on for

forty-ve, for good measure.

Even though I try and spit out the nasty whitening juice periodically,

sometimes it leaks from my teeth onto my gums and not only turns them white,

but stings badly, which could also be an ow.

“Da dye is n y eye,” I say as best as I can with the strips on my teeth.

“Spit, then say it again,” Mom urges me.

I do as she says.

“The dye is in my eye!”

“Shit. Shit shit shit. Why didn’t you tell me?! This stu could make you go

blind. Lean back!”

I throw my head back. It bangs on the back of the toilet seat. I ow again. Mom

starts squirting eye drops into my eye. A cocktail of tears and eye drops trickles

down my cheeks. I try to sit up again but my hair catches on the toilet usher.

Mom starts unhooking it. I feel trapped.

My appearance has always been of great importance to Mom. Even before I

started acting.

Some of my earliest memories are of me wearing giant pastry-pu dresses.

The dresses scratched and irritated my skin, and the look of them felt silly and

over-the-top to me. Mom would always tell me I looked so pretty, even though

every time she told me I looked pretty I shrieked as loud as I could that I wasn’t

pretty, I was “hampsome.” I was too little to be able to say “handsome” properly,

but old enough to know that I wanted to be called what my brothers were called,

not some stupid, lesser term designated for the girls.

Acting only made Mom’s obsession with my appearance worse, especially

after I couldn’t get an audition for the lead role in the lm Because of Winn-

Dixie.

“Get me Meredith Fine! Get me Meredith Fine!” Mom screamed into the

phone at Coast to Coast Talent Group’s scared young receptionist. We switched

to Meredith a few months back after Mom said Barbara Cameron is old news

and that this new agency, Coast to Coast, represented the cream-of-the-crop

young talent. Meredith is head of talent at the agency.

“Yeah, Meredith, it’s Debra McCurdy. How could you not submit Jennette

for Because of Winn-Dixie?! How?! She’s perfect for that role. You just don’t

care about her enough or prioritize her, that’s what it is,” Mom cried.

“Debra. Deb—”

“I bet you submitted Taylor Dooley!”

“Debra, you need to calm down and stop lobbing these wild accusations at

me. I submitted Jennette for the role, but they didn’t want to see her because

they’re looking for an ethereal beauty, and Jennette reads more homely.”

Mom looked stunned then hung up the phone and started wailing like

somebody died. It was the rst time I wished that I was prettier and didn’t care

about being hampsome.

16.

“ARE YOU SURE I SHOULD wear this?”

I’m looking down at the outt that’s sprawled out for me on our torn couch,

the same outt I’ve worn on every audition since the Winn-Dixie situation: a

fuzzy pink shirt with a rhinestone heart in the center of it, black faux-leather

skorts, and black gogo boots.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“But I feel like a streetwalker in it,” I tell Mom as my hot curlers rattle. These

curlers are also a post-Winn-Dixie development.

Mom lets out a big laugh.

“How do you know what that is?”

“From when you had me watch Taxi Driver.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Mom remembers. “Jodie Foster’s an—”

“Unrivaled child performer,” I nish for her, since she says the same thing

every time Jodie Foster’s name comes up.

“That’s right, baby. Unrivaled. Unrivaled except for you.”

I nod along and look down at the outt again. I dread putting it on. It makes

me feel embarrassed and not like myself.

“Are you sure this is what I should wear?”

“Yes, the outt makes you look very pretty. Not streetwalker pretty, but very

pretty.”

“But is pretty the—?”

“ARMS,” Mom orders, cutting me o. I raise my arms. She pulls o my shirt

and starts changing me into the outt.

I was just going to ask if pretty should be the goal. I’m trying out for a

hermaphrodite on Grey’s Anatomy. I didn’t know what that was until I asked

Mom and she said it’s when a person is both a girl and a boy. If I’m supposed to

be part-boy, I don’t know if a rhinestone shirt is the best article of clothing to

communicate that.

Despite the outt, I get a callback the same day. Afterward, the casting

director comes out and asks to speak with Mom.

“We’d like to bring Jennette in for a nal callback. Just her and one other

girl.”

Mom nods along, violently excited.

“But can you change her into a dierent outt? Something a bit more…

androgynous?”

“Well, we live really far away—Garden Grove. Do you know where it is? No

one knows where it is. It’s far. We’d have to take the 101 to the 110 to the 405.

We could just take the 5, but trac’s always bumper-to-bumper on that freeway.

Not enough lanes—”

“Greg?” the casting director calls out to her assistant, interrupting Mom.

Greg hurries over. “Would you mind lending your annel shirt to Jennette for

her callback?”

Greg takes o his annel shirt. He’s wearing it over a plain tee. The casting

director takes it and hands it to Mom.

“There you go. Problem solved.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I’m so happy we don’t have to take the 5!”

Mom takes my hand and we walk into the bathroom together. She changes

me into the annel. It’s an odd combo because I’m still wearing the skorts and

gogo boots on the bottom. I guess in a way it is part-girl and part-boy. Maybe it’s

spot-on?

The nal callback goes well—I don’t think I could’ve done the lines any

better—but we’re in the van on the way home when Meredith calls and tells

Mom that I didn’t get the part.

“What!? Why not?!” Mom veers aggressively.

“They said she’s too pretty.”

Mom hangs up the phone. There’s no swearing, no screaming, no crying.

There’s almost a joy to her. I’m shocked. I’ve never seen Mom be happy I didn’t

get a role, ever… but I’ve also never been too pretty for a role, ever. And now I

am. I’m too pretty to play a ten-year-old androgynous hermaphrodite.

17.

“DEB, I THINK JENNETTE’S GOT OCD,” Grandpa says heavily. He doesn’t know I

can hear; he thinks I’m asleep on my Costco mat while he and Mom watch Jay

Leno. But I’m not asleep. I just don’t like Jay Leno very much, so I rest my eyes

while I wait for Conan to come on.

“Oh please.” I can tell by Mom’s tone that she waves her hand dismissively

while she says it.

“You oughta take her to a therapist,” Grandpa says.

“Come on. Jennette is not some troubled girl with tics.”

“I don’t know, I see her doin’ all her little rituals constantly. And she looks so

frantic when she’s doin’ ’em. Makes me feel bad.”

“Dad, please, she’s ne. You’re just a worrier. Now let’s watch. Kevin

Eubanks is so charming. Look at that smile.”

Grandpa pauses to watch. I hear the crowd laugh two separate times. Then he

speaks again.

“Maybe we should take her to a doctor, just to check. She might need some

professional help.”

“She does not,” Mom says sternly. “Jennette’s perfect, all right? She does not

need help.”

They go back to watching Jay. I keep my eyes shut and think about what

Mom said. That I’m perfect. I know this is important for her to believe, even

though I’m not sure why. I’m not allowed to have any problems.

Then I think about what Grandpa said. That he thinks I’ve got OCD

because of my rituals. Frankly, I wish Grandpa would have just asked me about

my rituals because then I could have explained to him that it’s not OCD, it’s the

Holy Ghost. I wonder if he would have believed me. And then I wonder if I even

believe myself.

Are my rituals coming from the Holy Ghost? If they were coming from the

Holy Ghost, wouldn’t I have booked Princess Paradise Park like He said I

would, back two years ago when I rst heard Him? Instead, the movie lost

funding. Would the Holy Ghost have let the movie lose funding? Is it possible

that this voice in my head isn’t the Holy Ghost, and that instead it’s OCD?

Would Mom be able to handle that? Would she be okay if I wasn’t perfect?

The commercial break starts. Grandpa gets up to get a bowl of ice cream and

Mom gets up to pee.

Holy Ghost? I ask internally. Are you the Holy Ghost, or are you OCD?

“Of course I’m the Holy Ghost,” the Still Small Voice answers back in my

mind.

So that settles it. I asked him directly, and He answered me right back. There

you have it. That voice in my mind is the Holy Ghost after all.

“Now squint your eyes ve times fast, fold your tongue, then tighten your

butt cheeks for fty-ve seconds,” my Still Small Voice tells me. So I do.

I know he means well, but sometimes my Still Small Voice can get a little

loud. And sometimes, as much as I hate to say it, I wish my Still Small Voice

would shut up.

18.

I’M SCREAMING AT THE TOP of my lungs. Hysterical. I’m yelling that my stued

animals are gonna kill me, I know they’re gonna kill me. I’m rolling around on

the oor, bruising my sides as I thrash around, bumping into couch legs and

edges of dressers. I’m screaming, screaming, screaming until…

“And cut!” Mom says intensely, the same way she does whenever we nish

practicing my sides (scenes selected by a casting director) for an audition.

“Wow, Net,” Mom says while she looks at me with a erceness that almost

scares me. “Where did you learn to act like that?”

“I don’t know,” I say, even though I do. I know exactly where I learned to act

like that.

But I know better than to tell Mom that I got my character inspiration from

her erratic and violent behavior. That would only invoke more erratic and

violent behavior. I want her calm. I want her steady. I want her happy.

“Well, wherever you learned it from, whatever TV show or movie it was, it’s

working. That was the performance of a lifetime,” Mom says, shaking her head

in disbelief. “I don’t want to burn you out, I want you to save that magic, keep it

bottled up, so let’s not run this one again.”

I nod. I will save that magic.

My audition for the little girl with bipolar disorder in an episode of Strong

Medicine comes the next day.

Mom heads to the east lot even though I gently tell her three times that, per

the directions attached to the sides, I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to go to the

west one.

“Come on, we’ll be really quick,” Mom says to the bland-faced east lot

security guard. “She has an audition at two ten and we don’t wanna run late. It’s

a bad rst impression.”

“The east lot is only for series regulars and producers, people who are here

every day.”

“Is there any way to make an exception? I’m a cancer survivor, stage four, and

sometimes my bones—”

“Fine,” the guard interrupts Mom. It’s embarrassing when Mom rattles o

her cancer story to people we don’t know who don’t seem to care, but I’ve gotta

say, sometimes it’s pretty eective.

We park then run to the proper bungalow, and Mom signs me in while I pace

the hallway nervously.

“Don’t be nervous, Net,” Mom says as she walks over to me. “You’ve got

this.”

I believe her. I always believe her. My body language shifts immediately. Mom

has a way of doing that to me. Just as she can set my body on edge and make me

rigid with fear or anxiety, she can also calm me down. She has that kind of

power. I wish she’d use it this way more often.

The audition goes well and I get a callback for later that day. Mom and I go to

the local mall to walk around and kill some time, then we head back to the

callback around six p.m. I’m the only one there for my role. Everybody else there

is an adult, and they’re trying out for other guest and co-star roles in the episode.

My name is called quickly, so I go into the room and do the lines. I scream

and kick and roll around intensely. I get lost in it. There’s a part of me that

almost feels good doing it. Like this has been waiting to come out for a long

time. Like I’ve been stung this down, shoving it down, and nally here it is.

This is how I really feel. Like screaming.

The director stares at me and says he’s blown away and doesn’t know what to

say. I’m proud. I did a good job kicking and screaming.

I leave the casting oce. The grown-ups in the seats lining either side of the

hallway all start clapping. I wonder what’s going on, then I realize they must’ve

heard me through the walls. They’re clapping for me. Mom’s sitting at the end

of the hallway. Tears are welled in her eyes. She’s so happy. And in this moment,

so am I. Yes, it’s nice to make Mom feel good, but it’s also nice to feel good at

something. Even if that thing makes you very uncomfortable at times. Even if

that thing puts a lot of pressure on you. Even if that thing is very stressful.

Sometimes it’s just nice to feel good at something.

19.

“USE THAT CLIP, THAT ONE right there, where she’s got the re in her eyes,” Mom

says, pointing to the big monitor in front of the editor.

We’re standing in a small dark room with padded, soundproof walls. It’s just

Mom, me, and the deeply-in-need-of-a-shave editor who’s editing together my

demo reel. A demo reel is a thing actors make to show their on-camera work.

Usually the goal is to show some variety, good performance moments, and

anytime you shared the screen with a big actor. The demo reel is then used for

multiple reasons: it can be sent to casting directors to try to get you good

auditions, it can be sent to producers or directors to try to get you job oers

instead of having to audition, or in my case, it can be sent to managers to try to

get represented by them.

Mom wants me to get a manager because she thinks it’ll take my career to the

next level.

“We’re so close to a big break, we just need a little extra support,” Mom says

regularly. “We need a demo reel that’ll really impress Susan Curtis.”

Susan Curtis is the talent manager Mom’s determined to get me signed with.

Mom’s heard she’s the best in town for young performers.

So here we are today, in a building owned by a company that makes demo

reels, sorting through clips of my performances, including Strong Medicine. (I

booked the role. Mom said I didn’t do as good on set as I did in the callback.)

The demo reel gets nished up in a few days and sent o to Susan. We get a

call a couple days later that she wants to represent me.

“Yes, baby, yes!” Mom screams, so excited. “Even with an under-performance,

you still impressed. Imagine how impressed she’d have been if she’d seen your

callback!”

So I do. I imagine it. And I feel bad. I was better in the callback than I was on

the day of lming. I failed. I wish Mom would stop bringing it up, but I know

she’s just trying to get me to be better. I know she means well. She just wants me

to stop messing up and not doing as well as I could. She just wants me to be as

impressive as I can be. She’s just being a good mom.

20.

“CHUG THE GATORADE, CHUG IT!” Mom yells at me like a boxing coach to their

ghter.

I chug. The red Gatorade trickles down both sides of my mouth.

“But don’t get it on your shirt!”

I lean forward to avoid spilling on my shirt.

“Keep chugging!”

I do.

“Okay, that should be good, baby.”

I set the drink in the car cupholder and take a few deep breaths. Chugging

Gatorade is exhausting.

“That should denitely help bring your fever down. Good girl, Net. Good

girl.”

It’s been a week since signing with Susan. I have a fever of 103 and a cold so

bad it sounds like I’m pinching my nose when I talk, but Mom says it’ll look

noncommittal if we cancel the rst audition I got since signing, so here we are.

At least the audition is at Universal Studios, my favorite studio to audition at.

There’s something so romantic about walking to the bungalow where your

audition is and passing Steven Spielberg’s bungalow or seeing the Universal

Studios tram drive by. It’s the feeling of opportunity.

I’m auditioning for a network crime show called Karen Sisco, for the role of

an eleven-year-old homeless child named Josie Boyle. Mom debated wiping dirt

on my cheeks for the audition, but ultimately decided against it because “that’s

too over-the-top.” I’m relieved with her decision.

The bungalow waiting room is so crowded with girls auditioning that the

door is pushed open and little girls are sitting on the bungalow steps running

their lines. The Karen Sisco casting director must really want to pick the right

homeless child.

During the hour or so that I’m waiting to get called in, Mom continuously

gives me Ricola cough drops and pulls me into the restroom to run lines or chug

some Gatorade and Tylenol. My eyes are hot with sickness at this point and my

body feels so sleepy and heavy. I just want to curl up in a ball. But I can’t right

now. There’s work to do.

Finally, my name is called and I go into the crammed casting oce to

audition. There’s a part in the sides where my character has to snort, and I have

so much snot built up in my nose that it catches and makes this long, disgusting,

sinus-infected snort-noise. The casting director doesn’t seem to notice. She says I

did a great job.

I go in for a callback the next day, still sick. This time, instead of in the

bungalow, I audition in a more spacious room in one of the nice buildings near

the soundstages. It’s just the casting director again, and she doesn’t videotape

me, which means there will have to be another callback. Casting directors rarely

choose the actor for a role unless it’s a very small one. They typically do the

narrowing down process, and then the producers and director decide on the

person for the part.

I get called in for a second callback a couple days later, on Friday. Luckily, my

fever’s almost gone by now. Only 99.6, I’ll take it. The director, a British man in

a baseball cap and a button-down shirt, watches me. The snort goes by without

too much snot, and the rest of the lines go well. He tells me I did a good job,

gives me some direction on a few of the lines, and has me do it again. He tells me

I take direction well. I leave and report all of this to Mom.

My third callback, fourth audition all around, comes the following Tuesday.

I’ve never had so many auditions for a one-episode role on a TV show, but

apparently this role has been very tricky to cast and they want to make sure they

cast the right girl since it’s a demanding guest lead (upgrade from guest star)

opposite Carla Gugino and Robert Forster. Mom found this information out

from Susan, which made Mom repeatedly say what a good decision it was to sign

with her.

“She knows things. She just knows things.”

I’m nervous at this fourth audition. I almost wish I were still sick, because

there was less room for nerves when I was sick. Sickness takes the edge o. It’s

down to me and two other girls. They both have bigger credits than me, which

Mom whispers anxiously to me every thirty seconds, as if there’s anything I can

do about it.

“Andrea Bowen’s on Desperate Housewives. That show’s doing very well.

Though I’m not sure why. Pretty hokey, if you ask me.”

I’m the last girl called in. I see the director again, and there’s a camera in the

room this time. He says they’re gonna tape the audition for the producers. I nod.

“You’re quiet, huh?” he asks.

I can’t bring myself to respond. I’m petried.

“Guess so,” he says with a good-natured laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Just

have fun.”

I’m a little confused by the direction, since the scenes in the sides are (1) my

character witnessing the homeless man who takes care of her getting shot; (2) my

character sitting with Robert Forster’s character, telling him how she wants

nothing to do with the father who abandoned her as a baby; and (3) my

character sitting with her father, telling him she wants nothing to do with him

since he abandoned her as a baby.

Where is the fun? I don’t see any fun here.

The six-minute audition goes by in a blur. The director tells me I’m good and

that he thinks I’ll make it in this business. I say thanks and leave the audition.

That night, we get the call I booked the role. Mom jumps up and down. So do I.

“My baby’s homeless! My baby’s got edge! My baby’s homeless!”

21.

“DO IT IN BOLD LETTERS,” Mom says over my shoulder while she dries a plate

with a dishrag and watches me type.

I drag the mouse over the three words and click on the B tool at the top of the

page to make them bold, then I whip my head around to gauge Mom’s reaction.

“Yeah, that’s good.” Mom nods in agreement with herself. “I’m gonna make

Scottie some SpaghettiOs. Print it out when you’re done so I can take a look.”

Mom heads into the kitchen and I turn my attention back to the Microsoft

Word document on the computer screen in front of me. Both of these things—

the computer screen and Microsoft Word—are fairly new developments in the

McCurdy household. Marcus built the computer in his computer-building class

at high school and I bought all the add-ons with the check from my co-star

appearance on CSI, where I played a murderer’s sister. The part was emotionally

draining, but after Mom said I could buy Microsoft Word and The Sims with

the part of my paycheck she wasn’t using for bills, it was worth it.

I’m typing up my own résumé. This makes me feel proud. Capable.

Competent. How many other eleven-year-olds are typing up their own résumés?

I feel ahead.

However, those three words Mom just suggested I make bold cause me a deep

pang of dread in my gut. I look at the words for a long beat.

Those three words get top billing in the Special Skills portion of my résumé.

They come before pogo sticking, hula hooping, jump roping (including double

Dutch), piano, dance (jazz, tap, lyrical, hip-hop), exibility, and twelfth-grade

reading ability—all special skills that Mom thinks will either give me a leg up for

having, or that will lead me to miss an opportunity for not having, like the time I

missed out on a Chef Boyardee commercial by not being able to pogo stick.

Mom immediately bought a pogo stick from Pic ‘N’ Save and had me practice

an hour a day for two weeks until I could get to one thousand jumps without

falling o the pogo stick. Yes, I’m really good at pogo sticking.

But none of those special skills are as important as this three-word one. The

one that Mom designated top billing to, the one that she wanted in bold…

Crying on cue.

Crying on cue is the skill you want in child acting. Everything else pales in

comparison. If you can bring the tears on command, you’re a real player. A real

contender. And on a good day, I can bring the tears on command.

“You’re like a female Haley Joel Osment,” Mom tells me regularly. “He’s the

only other kid these days who can bring the tears. Well, I suppose Dakota

Fanning, but she’s more of a weller. The tears don’t actually fall. You want the

tears trickling down the cheeks for the camera.”

The rst time I cried on cue was in acting class. Miss Lasky told us to take an

object from home and think of a sad story to go with that object, and then come

to class the next week with the object and tell the story onstage.

I brought in a stapler. Dustin and Scottie draw a lot, and they staple their

drawings into little packets to categorize them. So I made up a story about our

house burning down and my brothers dying in the re and the only thing that

remained was their stapler. If I really wanted to bring the waterworks, I would

have thought of Mom dying, but thinking of Mom dying is o-limits. Even

though she’s been in remission for years, her health is still fragile enough that I

don’t want to jinx anything, since her life is in my hands with my annual

birthday wish. That’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly and one I would never

want to undermine for the sake of a teary monologue. My brothers’ lives, on the

other hand, are perfectly okay to exploit for artistic growth.

As I was on the little acting class stage telling the story, my eyes welled with

tears to the point that my vision was blurry. But the tears weren’t falling. I was

sort of feeling the sadness from the monologue, but sort of feeling the

frustration of the tears not falling. Miss Lasky walked onto the stage with

thunderous steps and leaned three inches from my face so our noses were nearly

touching. I was scared. I didn’t know what was coming next. Then she lifted up

her hand and snapped her ngers right in front of my eyes. The suddenness of

the gesture scared my body into a jolt, and with the jolt, the tears fell. Miss Lasky

beamed. I did too. Underneath the tears, I beamed.

From that point on, if an audition required crying on cue, I felt nearly

positive I would book the job. Word of mouth spread. It got to the point where

Susan would phone Mom and proudly announce, “I got another call from a

casting director saying, ‘So tell me about the kid who cries.’ ”

Granted, crying on cue was not fun for me. It was one of the more miserable

experiences of my life, sitting in a cold casting oce imagining tragic events that

harm my beloved family. Any given event could last me four to six auditions’

worth of tears, but eventually I’d become immune to the event—Mom referred

to this as being “all cried out”—so we’d have to switch to a new event. The

stapler story became Dustin dying of meningitis; he’d actually had a bad case of

it a few years back, so Mom would say, “Imagine if the spinal tap went wrong!”

Dustin dying of meningitis became Marcus dying of appendicitis and then Scott

dying of pneumonia and then Grandpa dying of old age. (“Imagine he’s in the

hospital bed clutching the sock doll you made him when you were six.”)

The time I brought the most tears was for an audition for a bit part in

Hollywood Homicide, a feature lm starring Harrison Ford and Josh Hartnett.

The part was for a little girl sitting in the back of a van with her tourist family,

driving down Hollywood Boulevard when Josh Hartnett hijacks the car and

starts driving it, causing the family to y into hysterics.

I don’t know what was going on that particular day, but my tear ducts were

especially lled. All I had to do was plop down in the casting oce and think of

Grandpa clutching his sock doll and BAM!, the tears spilled. An absurd amount.

This wasn’t crying, this was sobbing. My body convulsed with me. I was

hysterical.

“Wow,” the casting director said as soon as I was nished. She had curly

reddish-brown hair and a voice like butter. She was very nice.

“I mean, you have the part, but I kinda wanna see you do it again, just to see

it again,” said the guy with gray hair and a brown leather jacket sitting to the

casting director’s side.

And so I did it again. I had become the Cirque du Soleil performer of crying

on cue. People wanted to see me do it over and over, like I was climbing silks or

contorting in aerial hoops. Crying on cue was truly my Special Skill.

22.

EMILY’S DAD HAS JUST been murdered and her mom is a suspect. A crying-on-cue

audition for yet another network police procedural, Without a Trace, has just

come through. The audition scene is a scene where Emily gets called in for an

interrogation and starts getting overwhelmed and then the tears fall.

I’m sitting in the waiting room mustering up all my sadness when something

shifts in me. It feels strange. I don’t know how to describe it, but I know, my gut

knows, that the tears aren’t gonna come. I feel detached, disconnected, and then

irritated.

I tug on Mom’s arm. She dog-ears the diet section in her current issue of

Woman’s World. The diet section is her favorite, even though I’m not sure why.

Mom’s very petite, four foot eleven “and a whopping ninety-two pounds!” as

she often announces with proud irony, knowing her pound count is far from

whopping. She sets the magazine down on her lap and leans closer to me so I can

whisper in her ear.

“Mommy, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to cry.”

Mom looks at me, puzzled at rst, then her confusion turns to intensity. I can

tell immediately that she’s switched into pep-talk mode, a role she switches into

more often than is necessary because it makes her feel necessary. She furrows her

eyebrows and tightens her lips. There’s a childishness to this expression of hers,

like she’s a kid pretending to be an adult.

“Of course you will. You’re Emily. You are Emily.”

Mom often says this when she’s “getting me into character.” She’ll say, “You

ARE Emily.” Or Kelli. Or Sadie. Or whoever I’m supposed to be that day.

But today, right now, I don’t feel like being Emily. I don’t want to be Emily.

This has never happened before, but it’s happening now and it’s scaring me. A

part of me is resisting my mind forcing this emotional trauma on itself. A part of

me is saying, “No. It’s too painful. I’m not doing this.”

That part of me is foolish. That part of me doesn’t realize that this is my

Special Skill, that this is good for me, for my family, for Mom. The more I can

cry on cue, the more jobs I can book; the more jobs I can book, the happier

Mom will be. I take a deep breath, then smile up at Mom.

“You’re right. I’m Emily,” I say half to convince Mom, half to convince

myself.

The part of me that doesn’t want to cry on cue is not convinced. That part of

me screams that I’m not Emily, that I’m Jennette, and that I, Jennette, deserve to

be listened to. What I want and what I need deserves to be listened to.

Mom nds the fold in her magazine, but just before she goes to reopen it, she

leans over once more.

“You’re gonna book this one, Emily.”

But I don’t. The audition doesn’t go well. My heart isn’t in it. I don’t “feel

my words.” And worst of all, I do not cry on cue. I tank.

We’re on the way home, in bumper-to-bumper trac on the 101 South. I’m

sitting in my booster seat since I’m still small enough to be required to sit in it. I

try to work on my history homework but I’m unable to focus because I’m too

upset at myself over the audition.

I was in my head during it because that scary part of me decided to try and

speak up. That part of me that doesn’t want to be doing this.

“I don’t want to act anymore,” I say before I even realize I’ve said it.

Mom looks at me in the rearview mirror. A mixture of shock and

disappointment lls her eyes. I immediately regret saying anything.

“Don’t be silly, you love acting. It’s your favorite thing in the world,” Mom

says in a way that makes it sound like a threat.

I look out the window. The part of me that wants to please her thinks maybe

she’s right, maybe it is my favorite thing and I just don’t know it, I just don’t

realize it. But the part of me that doesn’t want to cry on cue, that doesn’t want

to act, that doesn’t care about pleasing Mom and just wants to please me, that

part of me screams at me to speak up. My face gets hot, compelling me to say

something.

“No, I really don’t want to. I don’t like it. It makes me uncomfortable.”

Mom’s face looks like she just ate a lemon. It contorts in a way that terries

me. I know what’s coming next.

“You can’t quit!” she sobs. “This was our chance! This was ouuuuur

chaaaaance!”

She bangs on the steering wheel, accidentally hitting the horn. Mascara

trickles down her cheeks. She’s hysterical, like I was in the Hollywood Homicide

audition. Her hysteria frightens me and demands to be taken care of.

“Never mind,” I say loudly so Mom can hear it through her sobs.

Her crying stops immediately, except for one leftover snie, but as soon as

that snie is over, it’s complete silence. I’m not the only one who can cry on

cue.

“Never mind,” I repeat. “Let’s just forget I said anything. Sorry.”

I suggest we listen to Mom’s current favorite album, Phil Collins’s … But

Seriously. She smiles at the suggestion and puts it in the CD player. She ips to

“Another Day in Paradise,” and the song starts blasting through the speakers.

Mom sings along. She eyes me in the rearview mirror.

“Come on! Why aren’t you singin’ along, Net?!” she asks giddily, her mood

having switched.

So I start singing along. And I throw on my best fake smile to go with it.

Maybe I wasn’t able to bring the tears for Without a Trace, but I was able to

bring the smile for Mom on our drive home. Either way, it’s performing.

23.

“A LITTLE GIRL SHOULDN’T HAVE to worry about her entire family,” Grandpa says

to me one afternoon.

He can tell I’m stressed. I’ve been pacing back and forth on our front lawn

for a half hour while I try to memorize my lines for an upcoming audition for a

low-budget movie called My Daughter’s Tears. Could there be a lm title more

perfectly suited to my Special Skill? Mom won’t let me read the script because

she says there’s too much “adult content,” which is honestly a relief because I’m

struggling enough as it is to try and memorize these fourteen pages by my

audition tomorrow, and with a Russian accent no less. The character I’m trying

out for, the daughter whose tears the title is based upon, is Russian. Mom

booked me an appointment with an accent coach, but I still don’t have my r’s

quite right.

I’m not allowed to go outside alone. Mom says I might get kidnapped and

abused and murdered like Samantha Runnion—the girl who was kidnapped

three weeks before her sixth birthday and lived just ve minutes away from us—

so whenever I go outside, someone has to join me. Today it’s Grandpa. He’s

been watering the lawn while I’ve been memorizing.

“What?” I ask, not because I didn’t hear what he said, but because I’m

confused. Of course a little girl should worry about her entire family. That’s

what little girls do.

“I just…” He steps closer to me. “I just think… you deserve to be a kid.”

My eyes well with tears, and not from me forcing them to. This is a natural

welling. I can’t remember the last time I cried naturally. I’m taken o guard. I

shue my feet.

“Come here, give Papa a hug.”

I step forward and wrap my arms around his big belly. He pats my back with

his free hand.

“Love you, Poppy Seed,” I say to him.

“Love you too, hun.”

Papa goes to bring his other arm around me to a get a proper hug going, but

he forgets he’s holding a hose and the water squirts on me.

“Woops!”

He sets the hose down on the lawn and lets the water run into the grass, then

he envelops me in his big Papa hug. It feels so nice and cozy, even though he kind

of smells like beef jerky.

“You know, I was gonna give you a little present once you nished

memorizing your lines, but maybe I oughta go ahead and give it to you now.”

“Okay!” I’m excited. Who doesn’t love presents?

Grandpa reaches into his back pocket and digs around. Crumpled-up receipts

spill out onto the grass. Finally, he pulls out a little car antenna topper. It’s Mike

Wazowski, the main monster character from Monsters, Inc. This kind of free

movie merch is among the perks he receives as a Disneyland employee.

I take Mike into my palm. He’s squishy and made of Styrofoam.

“I love how funny-lookin’ he is,” Grandpa says. “Idn’t he funny-lookin’?”

“Yeah.”

“He makes me laugh. I was hoping he’d make you laugh too.”

“Thanks, Poppy Seed.”

“ ’Course,” he says with a nod. “You know, I hope you remember to have fun.

Life should be fun for a kid.”

Grandpa bends down, picks up the hose and starts watering the grass again. I

look down at Mike, running my thumb over his rubbery skin while I think

about what Grandpa said.

Fun isn’t a thing I’m particularly familiar with. Life’s a serious thing. There’s

a lot going on in this place. Being prepared and working hard and doing well are

far more important than fun.

I tuck Mike Wazowski into my pocket and go back to my Russian accent.

24.

I’M LOOKING DOWN AT THE papers in front of me. The stack of 110 freshly

printed papers lled with size 12 Courier New font. This is Henry Road, my rst

screenplay.

I printed the screenplay out because I can’t wait to show it to Mom. I know

she could use a pick-me-up since she’s in the hospital right now. It can’t be easy

for Mom, to be in the hospital as often as she is—typically several times a year.

Even though sometimes the reason she’s in the hospital is unrelated to her cancer

(like this time when she’s there for her diverticulitis—or diverticulosis, I’m never

sure which one it is), the fear is always there… the fear that maybe when she’s

having an exam or a test or a surgery, the doctor will nd a recurrence of her

cancer.

Grandpa drives me to the hospital in his beat-up, dark-blue Buick with the

Bush/Cheney bumper sticker. I sit in the back seat thumbing my pages.

“Be careful you don’t get a paper cut, hun,” Grandpa tells me while he drives

through a light that’s in the middle of turning red.

We get to the hospital. I’ve been to a lot of hospitals for Mom’s various health

conditions, but I’ve never been to this one. This one’s small, boutique-seeming.

It’s less daunting than they usually are, and less mazelike, so we nd our way to

Mom’s room quickly.

She’s resting, but when she hears my footsteps, her eyes utter open and she

beams. “Hi, Net!” Her smile makes me smile.

“Hi, Nonny Mommy!”

I sit down in the chair next to her bed and take her hand in mine. I notice

that our wrists are the same size.

“What did you bring with you?” Mom asks, gesturing to the stack of papers

tucked under my other arm.

I can hardly contain my excitement. There’s a wheeled food table that’s rolled

up to Mom’s bed—much more luxurious than the white folding mat we eat on

at home. The food tray on top of it—the turkey, green beans, mashed potatoes,

side of chicken noodle soup, and crackers—are uneaten. I shove the food over a

bit to make a clearing and then I plop my pages on top of the table proudly.

“It’s my screenplay. Henry Road.”

“You wrote a screenplay?” Mom asks. I’m sure she’s impressed. But then a

concerned look crosses her face.

“Have you been going outside every day for twenty minutes to get your

vitamin D?”

“Of course,” I say, reassuring her.

“And you’ve been going to your dance classes?”

“Yep.”

She thumbs the cover page, but not with the pride I have when I thumb it.

Her thumbing has a sadness to it.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s just…” Mom looks down and smiles wistfully. This is one of her most

rehearsed-looking expressions to me. I’ve never once seen her do this expression

and felt like it was really coming from her in that moment. It always feels forced.

“It’s just what?” I ask.

“It’s just… I hope you don’t like writing more than you like acting. You’re so

good at acting. So, so good at it.”

Suddenly I’m embarrassed I gave Mom my screenplay. I’m ashamed. How

could I be so stupid? She would never support this.

“Of course I don’t like writing more than acting. I could never.”

Hearing the words come out of my mouth, I think I sound fake, with the

feigned innocence of the characters on the Leave It to Beaver reruns that

Grandma insists on watching even though I hate them so much.

Mom doesn’t notice that I’m lying, even though it feels so obvious in my

bones that I am. I absolutely prefer writing to acting. Through writing, I feel

power for maybe the rst time in my life. I don’t have to say somebody else’s

words. I can write my own. I can be myself for once. I like the privacy of it.

Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s judging. Nobody’s weighing in. No casting

directors or agents or managers or directors or Mom. Just me and the page.

Writing is the opposite of performing to me. Performing feels inherently fake.

Writing feels inherently real.

“Well good,” Mom says as she eyes me, as if she’s deciding whether or not she

can trust my response. “Writers dress frumpy and get fat, you know? I would

never want your little actress’s peach butt to turn into a big, giant writer’s

watermelon butt.”

Duly noted. Me writing makes Mom unhappy. Me acting makes Mom

happy. I pick up the pages from the food table and tuck them back under my

arm.

As an afterthought, Mom asks what the screenplay is about.

“It’s the story of a ten-year-old boy and his best friend as they try and pair

their single parents together.”

“Hm,” Mom says with a long look out the window. “They already did that in

The Parent Trap.”

25.

I WAKE UP AT EIGHT a.m. on my Costco mat. My bunk bed is now overwrought

with stu, so I’m back to sleeping on the mat. I’m wearing my Revlon

Run/Walk 2002 tee. I like the design. It’s got a lot of purple in it, which I’m into

right now.

I can’t let Mom know I’m into purple, since Mom prefers pink. She would be

heartbroken if I suddenly announce that I’ve switched my favorite color to one

that isn’t also hers. It is an honor that Mom cares about me so much that

something like me having my own favorite color would devastate her. True love.

Last year’s Revlon Run/Walk tee was mostly silver, and the year before that it

was mostly blue. I know about all the Run/Walk tee colors for the past seven

years because that’s how long my family has been attending the annual

Run/Walk. We started attending the Revlon Run/Walks after Mom went into

remission for her stage four metastatic ductal carcinoma, a term I am well

acquainted with because, in addition to our weekly VHS viewing, Mom often

has me recite it to casting directors.

“Everyone loves the story of somebody overcoming adversity. If you mention

my ductal carcinoma, you’ll get the sympathy vote.”

Mom’s cancer rarely seems to come up organically in my auditions for the

Suite Life of Zack & Cody and the King of Queens, but on shows like ER, I can

wedge it in a little more naturally, especially if there’s a character in the episode

who has cancer.

“You know, my mother had stage four ductal carcinoma, so I really relate to

the material.”

Mom always says that we go to the Revlon Run/Walks to support women

with breast cancer, which is so noble of her. Dustin once said under his breath

that he thought Mom went more for the free cancer merch than the cause itself,

but Dustin is a “troublemaker” and also Mom’s least favorite child, which she

even told him directly, so obviously Dustin doesn’t know the rst thing about

Mom or her intentions.

I’m rocking my oversized cancer tee and planning what poem I’ll write for

Mom this weekend. Since Mom’s not a fan of me writing screenplays, I’ve taken

an indenite hiatus from those, but she is very supportive of me writing quick

little poems about how much I love her, so I keep up with writing this way now.

I’m trying to gure out what to rhyme with the word “mommy” when I

realize my chest is kind of sore. More specically, the nipple area of the right side

of my chest. I reach my right hand up to touch the sore area and there I feel it…

A LUMP. Terror immediately lls my body. This can’t be happening. First Mom

and now me? The room starts spinning. I weigh my options—I can go wake

Mom to tell her now, but that seems burdensome. Or I can let her sleep until

eleven a.m., when I usually wake her up with her morning cup of tea. “I’d wake

up earlier if I wasn’t up so late stressing about money,” Mom always says.

“Maybe if your father got a job that PAID THE BILLS for once so I wouldn’t

have to depend on a CHILD…”

I don’t know which to pick, so I do what any sensible, cancer-ridden tween

deciding when to tell their mom does—I eeny meeny miny moe it.

“Oh, Sweetie.” Mom half laughs as she runs her ngers back and forth along

my puy, lumped nipple on the right, and then over my smooth, at nipple on

the left to compare. “That’s not cancer.”

“Then what is it?”

“You’re just getting boobies.”

Oh. No. The only thing worse than a cancer diagnosis is a growing-up

diagnosis. I am horried of growing up. First, I’m small for my age, which is a

benet in showbiz because I can book roles for characters younger than me. I

can work longer hours on set and have to take fewer breaks by law. Logistics

aside, I’m more cooperative and can take direction better than those seven-year-

old scumbags.

Mom is constantly reminding me how good it is that I look so young for my

age. “You’ll book more, baby. You’ll book a lot more.”

If I start to grow up, Mom won’t love me as much. She often weeps and holds

me really tight and says she just wants me to stay small and young. It breaks my

heart when she does this. I wish I could stop time. I wish I could stay a child. I

feel guilty that I can’t. I feel guilty with every inch I grow. I feel guilty whenever

we see one of my aunts or uncles and they comment on how much I’m “growing

up.” I can see Mom’s eyebrow twitch whenever they say that. I can see how

much it pains her.

I’m determined to not grow up. I’ll do anything to stop it from happening.

“Well, is there anything I could do to stop the boobies from coming in?” I ask

Mom nervously.

Mom breaks into a laugh-exhale, the kind where her eyes wrinkle up. I know

this expression well, the way I know all of Mom’s expressions well. I have learned

them inside and out so that I can behave accordingly at all times.

No one else in the family seems to understand Mom’s emotions. Everyone

else walks around clueless, never knowing which Mom they’re going to get. But

I always know. I’ve spent my whole life studying her so that I can always know,

because I always want to do whatever I can in any given moment to keep or

make Mom happy. I know the dierence between Mom being irritated and

outraged. I know the dierence between when she’s upset at Dad or when she’s

upset at Grandma (clenched jaw means Dad, tight eyebrow means Grandma). I

know the dierence between when she’s a little happy (kisses me on the

forehead) and a lot happy (sings Phil Collins). And right now, in this moment,

where she laugh-exhales and her eyes wrinkle up, I know that she’s not only a lot

happy, but a special, particular kind of happy.

Mom is grateful-happy.

This is my favorite way to see her, because I am directly the source of it. I’ve

seen Mom be grateful-happy when I book roles and when I side with her when

she’s in the middle of an argument with anyone else in the house. Mom is

grateful-happy when she feels seen, valued, and nurtured.

“What can I do to stop the boobies from coming?” I repeat, leaning further

into my question now that I know it satises Mommy so much.

Mom looks down, the way she does when she’s about to tell me a secret, like

the time she told me Grandma has false teeth or the time she said she nds Dad

boring. I know something juicy is coming. Something special, something just

the two of us will know. Something that will cement and validate our wonderful

best friendship, the way only secrets can.

“Well, sweetheart, if you really want to know how to stay small, there’s this

secret thing you can do… it’s called calorie restriction.”

I take to calorie restriction quickly and I’m quite good at it. I’m desperate to

impress Mom. She’s a great teacher because she’s been calorie restricting for so

long, she tells me.

“Once when I was falling asleep as a child, I heard my mom and dad talking

in the other room. They said my brother could eat anything and his metabolism

would work it right o, but that anything I ate turned to fat. Those words got to

me, Net, they really did. I’ve been restricting ever since.”

Now that I think about it, it does make sense to me that Mom’s been

restricting. She only has hot tea every morning for breakfast, nothing in it, and a

plate of steamed vegetables every night for dinner, nothing on them. I rarely see

her eat lunch, and if she does, it’s a salad with no dressing or half of a chocolate

chip Chewy Granola Bar. I’m in good hands.

I start shrinking by the week as Mom and I team up to count our calories

every night and plan our meals for the next day. We’re keeping me on a one-

thousand-calorie diet, but I have the smart idea that if I only eat half my food,

I’ll only be receiving half the calories, which means that I will be shrinking twice

as fast. I proudly show my half-eaten portions to Mom after every meal. She

beams. Each Sunday, she weighs me and measures my thighs with a measuring

tape. After a few weeks of our routine, she provides me with a stack of diet

books that I nish quickly. I learn the value of eating water-dense fruits and

vegetables like jicama and watermelon. I learn how helpful cayenne and chili

peppers are for increasing your metabolism. I learn that coee is an appetite

suppressant, so I start drinking decaf—black—alongside Mom. Drinking coee

in any form is technically against the church’s rules.

“Well it’s decaf so I’m sure God would make an exception,” Mom says, and I

nod like I agree, even though I’m pretty sure the God I’ve learned about doesn’t

make exceptions.

The thinner I get, the stricter I get with what I’ll ingest, because it seems like

my body is trying to hold on to whatever I eat.

I notice that most foods add a little body weight to me, four-tenths of a

pound or so. I know this because I weigh myself ve times a day. Five is my lucky

number, so this amount of daily weigh-ins seems appropriate. I also want to

make sure that I’m staying on top of every single shift in my body so that I can

make proper adjustments and be on track for my weekly weighing session with

Mom.

My favorite foods are sugar-free Popsicles, applesauce, and unsweetened iced

tea, because these are the foods that don’t seem to add weight to me. Popsicles

and applesauce add nothing, and iced tea is peed right out. These are stress-free

foods for me. Safe foods. Comfort foods. Whoever said mac ’n’ cheese and fried

chicken were comfort foods was out of their mind. These are the real comfort

foods.

Mommy and I continue our mission, and I am thrilled. Every day feels to me

like the montage of the twins in The Parent Trap, where Mom and I give each

other Eskimo kisses and do silly hand jives in between our weekly weigh-ins and

daily calorie counts. (I watched the lm after Mom suggested my screenplay

Henry Road was a rip-o. She was right.) Calorie restriction has brought me and

Mom closer than we already were, which is really saying something because we

were already so close. Calorie restriction is wonderful!

We’re about six months into our calorie-restricting plan and you can really

see the dierence. I’m down three sizes and am now wearing a kids’ size 7 slim.

The Holy Spirit tells me to touch the word “slim” on my clothing tags ve times

every day because that ritual, along with my restriction, will keep me small.

Thanks, Holy Spirit!

Overall, things are going well. But today is an exception.

Today I am anxious, because I’m sitting in the waiting room at my doctor’s

oce waiting to be called back. And waiting to be called back means waiting to

be weighed. And I’m terried of being weighed on a scale that isn’t my own.

What if the numbers are o? What if I weigh more on this one?

Mom seems to sense that I’m nervous, so she holds my hand while we wait.

And wait. And wait. Until nally… “McCurdy, Jennette,” the doctor’s assistant

calls out. My heart starts pounding so intensely, I’m sure everyone in the room

can hear it. My face feels hot. Time blurs while I walk through the waiting room

door and into the hallway. Mom starts taking o my corduroy Children’s Place

jacket, knowing it adds extra weight. We’re in this together. The nurse tells me I

can leave my shoes on, but Mom tells me to take them o. Always looking out! I

kick o my shoes and step on the scale. Mom and I lock eyes.

“Sixty-one pounds,” the nurse says as she scribbles on her clipboard paper.

As I hear the words come out of her mouth, they feel morphed and warped. I

am crushed. The scale at home said fty-nine. I immediately try to read Mom’s

expression. It’s even, which means disappointment. I am even more crushed. We

are escorted to room 5, my lucky number not seeming so lucky in this moment.

I step up the little stepping stool and sit on the teddy bear paper on the patients’

table. It’s rough and pokey. The assistant asks a few more questions, then closes

the door behind her. I open my mouth to say something, but Mom speaks

before I can.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

A few minutes pass, and Dr. Tran comes in. I’m disappointed it’s Dr. Tran

instead of Dr. Pelman because Mom seems in a much better mood when it’s Dr.

Pelman. (If it wasn’t against the gospel, I’d think Mom has a crush on him, but I

know better because lust is a sin and Mom would never engage in a sin.) Dr.

Tran keeps her eyes on her clipboard.

“Debbie, could I speak with you privately for a minute?”

Mom steps outside with Dr. Tran. The doors are thin enough and Mom talks

loud enough that I can completely hear them.

“So… I wanted to speak with you about Jennette’s weight,” Dr. Tran starts.

“It’s signicantly lower than what’s normal for her age.”

“Huh,” Mom says, sounding a little anxious. “She’s eating normally. I haven’t

noticed any changes.”

That’s not true. Mom has noticed the changes because she’s the one who

wanted the changes in the rst place.

“Well…” Dr. Tran takes a big breath in. “Sometimes when young girls have

anorexia, they’re very secretive about their food habits.”

This is the rst time I’ve heard the word “anorexia.” It sounds like a dinosaur.

Dr. Tran continues on.

“I suggest you keep a close eye on Jennette’s eating behaviors.”

“Oh, I will, Dr. Tran. I certainly will,” Mom assures her.

I’m confused. Mom already keeps an eye on my eating behaviors. She’s as

involved in them as I am, if not more so. Mom not only knows everything about

how and what I eat, but she encourages and supports my habits. What’s going

on? What does this even mean?

A few months later, I hear the word “anorexia” again in the parking lot of my

dance studio after class. I’m on the bench out front, waiting for Mom to arrive

while I learn some sides for an audition to play Val Kilmer’s daughter in an

upcoming movie.

Mom’s always twenty to forty-ve minutes late picking me up, which makes

sense because she’s so busy with other things, like calling bill collectors to ask for

holds and stopping by the Westminster Mall to pick up Hallmark thank-you

cards for every casting director I’ve read for in the past six months. (“They might

not remember your read, but they’ll remember a thank-you card with pretty

cursive writing on the front!”)

I notice Anjelica Gutierrez’s mom has been loitering near her minivan, even

though Anjelica’s last class was the same last class as mine and the Gutierrezes

usually leave right on time. Then I see Mom’s copper Ford Windstar minivan

make the left turn onto the street of the studio and pull into the parking lot. I

grab my dance bag and start to head to the car, but Mrs. Gutierrez beats me to it.

She approaches Mom’s passenger window and asks her to roll it down.

“Hi, Deb, I just wanted to talk to you real quick about Jennette. I notice she’s

losing a lot of weight. It seems like she might have anorexia. I wanted to see if

you’re working on getting her help. Another girl in class struggled with it, and

her mom gave me the name of a specialist—”

“Let’s talk about this some other time,” Mom interrupts Mrs. Gutierrez in

the way that tells me “some other time” is never going to come. I pull open the

car door and jump in. And with that, we’re on our way home.

“Mom?” I ask once we’re stopped at a red light.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“What’s anorexia?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Angel. People are just being dramatic.” The light

turns green. She steps on the gas.

“Did you learn your lines?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Great. You’ve got a good shot at this one, Net. I can feel it. Val’s

blonde, you’re blonde, you’re a shoo-in.”

“Uh-huh.”

“An absolute shoo-in.”

I look out the window, then go back to learning my lines. I’m excited for the

sugar-free Popsicle I’ll have when I get home.

26.

TODAY IS THE DAY I enter Beehives, the church’s program for girls twelve to

thirteen years old. Upon entering the program, you’re assigned a “role” and the

role I’ve just been assigned is assistant secretary—a position that doesn’t even

exist.

“But Madison’s already secretary,” I tell Sister Smith, my teacher. “So what

am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you can help her out.”

I look down at my ngernails to hide my disappointment. Makaylah Lindsey

leans over to talk to me.

“The girls who get the good positions are the ones who are for sure always

gonna be active.”

I hate Makaylah. I know she was adopted and I should feel bad for her and all

that, but I don’t. I just plain hate her. She continues on.

“They gave you your position because they think you’ll probably eventually

become inactive.”

“Inactive” is all but a cuss word in the Mormon church. Active members are

those who regularly attend service, inactive ones are those who have “fallen o,”

or stopped attending even though they’re still on the church’s records.

Whenever an inactive member is brought up in a conversation in church, the

member’s name is said with a nose scrunch and a whispery tone, like it’s

something shameful and pathetic.

“We’re not gonna go inactive.”

“We’ll see.” Makaylah shrugs.

Even though I hate Makaylah and I desperately want her to be wrong, I fear

that she might be right. If I really think about it, there are already a few signs.

For as far back as I can remember, my family has never t the bill of “First-

Rate Mormons.” In every Latter-day Saints ward, there are the kinds of

Mormons who have perfect attendance in seminary and are o-book for their

Third Nephi verses. The kinds of Mormons who are trusted to bring the

chicken potpie to the potluck, those clearly capable of that level of responsibility.

These are the First-Rate Mormons.

And then there are the kinds of Mormons who skimp on tithing and always

show up twenty minutes late to service. The “just go ahead and bring the salad”

kinds of Mormons—those who can’t be trusted with any more responsibility

than some bagged iceberg lettuce with the stale croutons already mixed in. These

are the Second-Rate Mormons.

We, the McCurdys, are Second-Rate Mormons. I’ve known this for a while.

There’s a certain pity that First-Rates view Second-Rates with, and I’ve sensed

that pity in side-eyes from Sister Humire and Sister Meeks, who are both First-

Rates.

Everybody knows that Second-Rates are much more likely than First-Rates

to go inactive, but still, I didn’t think our fate was by any means sealed. I was

sure we could reverse our Second-Rate status with some Mormon milestone, like

Marcus serving a mission or us never skipping service.

But now that Makaylah’s brought it up and I’m thinking it through, I’m

coming to terms with the fact that maybe those Mormon milestones won’t

happen after all.

Marcus has been old enough to go on his mission for several years, but he

hasn’t gone. And even though there’s no age restriction for going on one, men

are 70 percent less likely to go if they don’t go within that rst year that they’re

able, according to the Mormon magazine Ensign (the only magazine besides

Woman’s World that’s in Mom’s regular rotation). Mom says it’s Marcus’s

girlfriend Elizabeth’s fault, and that she’s got the devil in her, but I’m not so

sure. Elizabeth seems ne to me.

We’ve also started skipping service some weeks, usually around the release of

episodes of shows that I’ve had guest-star roles on. It rst started after Law and

Order: SVU, when Sister Salazar asked Mom if she thought it was “in line with

the Gospel” for me to be portraying a nine-year-old rape victim. Mom had a

brilliant defense about how she thinks the value of a TV starlet being Mormon

outweighs the roles that that starlet plays. Sister Salazar let it go for awhile, until I

was in an episode of a show where I played a child who murders another child.

Ever since then, every time an episode of a show I’m on airs, we skip a week or

two of church to “avoid the judgers,” as Mom says. Regardless of the reasoning,

we’re skipping service. And skipping service is the opposite of a Mormon

milestone required to turn us into First-Rates.

“Mom?” I ask when we’re back at home, folding laundry together.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Are we gonna become inactive Mormons?”

“Of course not. Why would you even ask that, Net?”

“Makaylah said the reason I got assigned assistant secretary is because they

think we’ll probably go inactive.”

“Oh, please. What does Makaylah Lindsey know? She’s adopted.”

27.

“NET! SHOWER TIME!” MOM SHOUTS from another room.

My whole body freezes. Oh no. Not shower time.

I’ve dreaded showers for a while, ve years or so. Whenever it was that I

started to feel uncomfortable that Mom still showers me.

She doesn’t mean to make me uncomfortable, I don’t think. She says she has

to shower me because I wouldn’t know how to shampoo and condition my own

hair. She says maybe if it wasn’t so long or such a specic texture that she

wouldn’t have to, but because it is those things, and since she was a professional

hairstylist, it just makes sense for her to do it.

Mom showers me with Scottie sometimes. He’s almost sixteen at this point. I

get really embarrassed when she showers us together. I can tell he does too. We

usually just look away from each other and Scott distracts himself by drawing

Pokémon in the fogged glass. He does a pretty good Charizard. When she

showers us together, Mom says it’s because she’s got too much to do. Scott asked

if he could shower himself once. Mom sobbed and said she didn’t want him to

grow up so he never asked again after that.

Whether or not Scott’s there with me, Mom gives me a breast and “front

butt” exam, which is what she calls my private parts. She says she wants to make

sure I don’t have any mysterious lumps or bumps because those could be cancer.

I say okay because I denitely don’t want cancer, and since Mom’s had it and all,

she would know if I do.

I usually just try and think of Disneyland when Mom’s doing the exams. I

think of the next time Grandpa will sign us in. I think of the parade and the

reworks and the characters all happy and everything.

By the time the exams are done, a huge wave of relief washes over my whole

body and I usually realize that’s the rst time I’ve felt my body since the exam

started. It’s weird… when the exams are happening, I feel like I’m outside of

myself. Like my body is a shell I’m disconnected from and I’m living entirely in

my thoughts. My Main Street, Fantasyland, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride thoughts.

(Actually, I usually don’t think of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride because as much as

people love it, I think that ride’s mediocre.)

“Net?!” Mom calls out again.

My body’s still frozen. I swallow and force a response up my throat.

“I’m ready!”

She’s showering me alone tonight. I know because I have an audition for

House tomorrow, and I’ve noticed this pattern that whenever I have an audition,

Mom showers me alone. I think it’s because she wants to make sure she gets the

shampooing and conditioning just right so that my hair will look perfectly glossy

for the casting director. Mom says this business is shallow and that glossy hair

can be the dierence between getting a callback or not.

My breathing is shaky as I set down my schoolwork and get up o the couch.

My hands are clammy. I try and focus on the relief I’ll feel as soon as the exams

are done and I know the shower’s just about over. I try and focus on that

lightness. That feeling that everything’s better and rosier for the rest of the night.

I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying.

I get to the bathroom. Mom won’t let me turn on the faucet because she says

it’s tricky to twist the handles and get the right temperature, so I wait for her.

While I wait, I take o my pants, then my underwear, then my shirt. I step into

the shower and hear the drip of the leaking faucet. I study the mold on it. It’s

white and blue and crusty. I hear Mom’s footsteps as she approaches the

bathroom. I’m o to Fantasyland.

28.

I’M SITTING IN THE BACK seat of the Ford Windstar. We’re driving to the Art

Supply Warehouse to visit Dustin on his shift. Dustin seems to hate this, but

Mom loves it. I think she enjoys knowing people who work at the place she’s

visiting. I think it makes her feel like a VIP. Her posture and energy shift

completely whenever she walks into Best Buy to visit Marcus, or the ticket stand

at Disneyland to visit Grandpa. She gets this aura like she owns the place. I love

seeing Mom so condent.

As we drive over, Mom’s on the phone with a bill collector, asking for an

extension, when she turns to me excitedly.

“Susan’s calling!”

I know why Susan’s calling. Yesterday I screen-tested for a show called iCarly,

a new Nickelodeon show about young teenagers who create a web show

together. And next week I’m supposed to screen-test for a show called

Californication, a new Showtime show about a man who mistreats women. By

the time you get to the screen test for a TV show, they already have the contracts

all written up, and apparently it’s good when you’re testing for more than one

show at the same time, because your manager can use that as “leverage” to get

you the best deal possible. (Mom loves saying the word “leverage” on calls with

Susan. She says it makes her sound “in the know.”) There’s also this weird rule

that whichever show tests you rst gets rst choice on whether to pick you or

not. They get a designated amount of time to decide if they for sure want you,

then if they haven’t decided by that point, the other network gets rst choice.

I had my screen test for iCarly yesterday, so they have rst choice as to

whether they want me. Susan calling right now means Nickelodeon has made up

their mind.

As excited as Mom is to talk to Susan, she nishes up with the bill collector

rst, like she always does.

“I’m not gonna drop the call after I’ve been waiting on hold for an hour.”

Mom weeps her way through an extension, but by the time she hangs up

with Brandon at Sprint PCS, her tears are dry. While she dials Susan, she thrusts

her hand back behind her and toward me. I’m sitting in my booster seat. (I’m

fourteen and still in the booster.) I have to lunge forward as far as I can to grip

her hand, and since the seat belt is pulled through the booster seat, the length of

the belt is shortened so it locks sooner. The second I lean forward to grab Mom’s

hand, the belt makes the clicking sound of it locking. I’m trying to reach her

hand but I can’t. Click, click, click.

“Hi, can I speak with Susan? It’s Debbie McCurdy.”

Click, click. Mom’s hand wags around, trying to nd mine. Our ngers

almost graze. “Okay, yeah, I think I can gure out how to put it on speaker.”

Mom presses buttons aimlessly on her phone until something works, and

Susan’s voice starts blaring from the phone speaker.

“She booked iCarly! She booked iCarly!”

Mom’s hand ies forward to accompany her woohoo in what can only be

described as a questionable st pump. Whatever it is, it takes her hand away

from mine and my whole body feels that. But just for a second. Because then it

hits me. I’ve booked my rst series regular role.

Mom pulls into the Art Supply Warehouse parking lot while we both scream

at the top of our lungs. She pulls into a reserved-for-handicapped space—she’s

thrilled she has a handicapped card since her diverticulitis diagnosis. I unbuckle

my seat belt as quickly as I can.

I jump into Mom’s arms. She squeezes me. I’m elated. Everything’s going to

be dierent now. Everything’s going to be better. Mom will nally be happy.

Her dream has come true.

29.

“OOH, A FRUIT BASKET!”

Mom unwinds the twist tie and starts peeling o the cellophane wrapping.

“Pineapple’s really high in sugar, but you can have some of this cantaloupe

and honeydew.”

“Okay!”

Mom yanks two cantaloupe skewers out of the basket. Just as she’s about to

pass mine to me, she has a second thought and places it back.

“We can split one,” she says.

We start chewing on our ower-shaped cantaloupe pieces as we look around

at the other baskets on my dressing room table. There’s a basket of teas from

Coast to Coast, an at-home spa basket from Susan, and a meat and cheese basket

from Nickelodeon.

“We can take that one home for Grandpa and the boys,” Mom tells me.

This is the rst dierence I notice about being a series regular. You get a lot of

baskets. I never got one basket in all my years as a guest star. (Although when I

did my guest spot on Karen Sisco, Robert Forster did give me a silver pen with

my name engraved on it, and he gave Mom a silver shoehorn. What a guy.)

Today is our rst day back to work after being ocially picked up for a rst

season order. After you shoot the pilot of a TV show, the network executives

watch all the pilots and pick about a third of them to actually get made into a

series. We were part of the lucky third, and, even cooler than that, we got the

highest episode order of all the picked-up shows. Most of them got ten- or

thirteen-episode pickups. We got twenty. Mom says this is probably because of

my outstanding performance as Sam Puckett, a zinger-slinging, rough-around-

the-edges tomboy with a heart of gold who, ironically compared to my

experience with it, loves food.

“You ready to run lines, Angel?” Mom asks.

“Sure,” I say, even though I’m never ready. I still get nervous to practice lines

with Mom. I thought my being cast as a series regular might help her lighten up

a bit, but it hasn’t. She’s still so critical. It’s stressful.

I take a deep breath in to get ready for my rst line when there’s a loud knock

at my dressing room door.

“Answer it,” Mom tells me as she slaps her thigh, exasperated to be

interrupted the second before we started.

I pull open the purple door and on the carpet in front of me is yet another

basket. This one’s lled with movie theater snacks: Milk Duds and Twizzlers and

a few packets of popcorn. In the middle of the basket is a hundred-dollar gift

card to ArcLight, the fanciest movie theater I’ve ever seen, the one just up the

street from Nickelodeon Studios, where we shoot the show. Mom and I almost

saw a movie at ArcLight the week that we shot the pilot, but Mom said there was

no chance in hell she was paying $13.75 for a movie ticket. “I don’t care how

surrounded their sound is.”

This gift card is the highest-dollar-amount gift card I’ve ever seen. I almost

can’t believe it.

“It’s from Miranda,” I tell Mom, shocked. “A hundred dollars to ArcLight.”

Miranda is my co-star on iCarly. She plays the titular role of Carly Shay—a

sweet, feminine teenage girl who, with her best friends Sam and Freddie (played

by my other co-star, Nathan), starts a web series. Mom says they didn’t esh out

Miranda’s character very well. “Poor thing gets all the exposition. She’s a pretty

girl, but it’s a shame her character has no personality.”

I look back down at the basket. I’m really surprised that another child actor

would be so nice to me. Usually there’s such a sense of competition. This gesture

is the opposite of that. I’m touched. I reach into the basket.

“You’re not getting anywhere near those Milk Duds but that’s very nice of

her. Now let’s practice your lines.”

30.

“WHAT ABOUT THIS?” MOM ASKS as she holds up a TY plush panda bear. We’re

in Hallmark Greeting Cards at the Westminster Mall. Since Miranda got a gift

for me to celebrate the start of the season, we’re picking one out for her, too.

Mom wags the panda around.

“It’s a cute little panda, plus it rhymes with her name. Miranda. Panda. Cute,

right?”

“Yeah, it’s really cute. Maybe we could just keep looking around to make sure

that’s the absolute best gift.”

“Well, I think this with the fuzzy journal and we’re good, right?” Mom asks.

“Sure. Right.”

I swallow. We’re not good. Miranda got me a very expensive gift card to a very

fancy movie theater. That is a cool gift. A TY stued animal and a fuzzy journal is

not a cool gift.

I used to think these were cool gifts, up until a few months ago. Up until a

few months ago, I thought my rainbow bell-bottoms from the Children’s Place

and my quiz books from Limited Too were cool. But since meeting Miranda, my

cool radar has shifted.

The rst time I met her was at my screen test for iCarly. She was leaning

against a wall, sipping Coke from a glass bottle and texting on her Sidekick.

Whoa. Coke and a Sidekick. This girl knows what’s up.

We talked briey at the screen test, but not much more than introductions

because we were rushed into the room to do our scenes together for the long

table of executives.

We didn’t talk a ton during the shooting of the pilot, either. I felt shy, and it

seemed to me like she did too. We ran our lines between takes and said an

enthusiastic “Bye! See you tomorrow!” at the end of each day, but there wasn’t

much else in between.

I studied her from afar though. Miranda seemed to have an independence I

didn’t have, and it fascinated me. She walked alone to pick up food from a

dierent nearby restaurant each day—alone! What’s that like? Then I’d always

hear when she came walking back into the studio because she’d be playing Gwen

Stefani or Avril Lavigne from her Sidekick. I knew of these artists, but Mom

didn’t allow me to listen to them because she said their music might make me

wanna “do bad things.”

On set, Miranda said cuss words like “shit” and “ass,” and she took the Lord’s

name in vain at least fty times a day. Mom warned me not to get too close to

Miranda because she doesn’t believe in God. (Nathan is okay for me to get close

to, Mom says, because he does. “Southern Baptists are no Mormons, but at least

we’ve got Jesus in common.”)

Even though Mom said not to get close to Miranda, I really wanted to. I

wanted some of her coolness to rub o on me. And she seemed nice, too, which

is hard to be if you’re cool. I had my ngers crossed that somehow, despite our

mutual shyness, a friendship between us would develop.

But then, unfortunately, it didn’t seem likely. Each day that passed where we

didn’t exchange phone numbers, I felt like we were getting further away from a

potential friendship. Until, on the last day of shooting the pilot, just as Miranda

was leaving set, she turned back and said, “Hey, Jennette, do you have AIM?”

“Not really,” I said, thinking she was talking about throwing things. I’ve

never had good aim.

“You don’t have AOL Instant Messenger?” She seemed shocked.

“Ohhhh, AIM,” I said, hoping that I sounded convincing, like I knew what it

was even though I still didn’t. “Yeah, I have it.”

“Cool. Add me.”

“Cool.” And I felt it.

As soon as I got home that day, I had Marcus sign me up for an account.

Over AIM, our friendship blossomed. Miranda and I spent hours talking every

day on it. Sometimes if Mom walked past and asked me what I was doing, I’d tell

her I was talking to Miranda, but most of the time I’d shrink the AIM text

bubble, lie, and say I was doing schoolwork. She didn’t question me. She’d leave

the room and then I’d pull the text bubble back up and start laughing.

Even though in person Miranda seemed shy and quiet, she had a distinct and

hilarious personality through her written words. So many of the things she said

made me laugh. Her way of observing things—people, habits, human nature. I

loved her. And I was so excited we were becoming friends.

But now Mom’s lame gifts were going to ruin it.

Back at work, I set the gift bag down and knock three times on Miranda’s

door, then I rush back to my dressing room. I didn’t want to see her reaction

when she opened the stued animal and fuzzy journal. I was too embarrassed.

Miranda doesn’t mention the gifts at rst, not for almost our entire workday.

I’m scared our friendship may be over.

But then as we’re walking toward the parking lot with our moms at the end

of the day, she turns to me and, through nervous laughter, says:

“Thanks for the stued animal. It’s really cute.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And the journal too. I’m excited to get back to journaling.”

“Awesome.”

She smiles at me. I can tell she’s just being nice. But I appreciate the kindness.

“See you on AIM later,” she says with a wave.

“Okay,” I say excitedly. A little too excitedly. Even if she didn’t like her panda

and fuzzy journal, even if she was just being nice when she said thanks for them,

she still wants to be friends. I’m so glad I have AIM.

31.

I’M STANDING BEHIND THE CURTAIN in the dressing room of the soundstage that

we shoot the show on. My arms are folded across my body. My foot is tapping

anxiously. I don’t want to come out from behind the curtain.

“Come on out, Net, they’ll just get one picture and then you’ll be good to

go.”

“Okay.”

I step out. I feel my cheeks blush with embarrassment. I hate this feeling, the

feeling of so much of my body being exposed. It feels sexual to me. I’m ashamed.

“You look great,” the wardrobe assistant who’s always sewing yell-says from

across the room without looking up from her sewing machine.

I worry that “great” means “sexual.” I fold my arms across my body to try and

cover it up more. I hunch my shoulders over like a little cave to protect me. I

don’t want to look sexual. I want to look like a child.

“I’ll denitely push for the one-piece, but thank you for humoring me and

trying on the bikini,” the head of wardrobe says while she pulls her hair up into a

bun and pins it into place with chopsticks.

“Sure,” I say, unable to look at her, or at Mom, who sits on the stairs in the

opposite corner of the room.

“Set your arms down, Angel; try and look more comfortable,” Mom tells me.

I set them down. I’m no more comfortable.

“Shoulders back.” Mom does the gesture herself, to lead by example.

I pull my shoulders back the way she loves and I hate. I don’t like pung out

my chest. I’m not proud of my chest and the little nipple buds on it, and the

only reason for pung out something is if you’re proud of it. I hate this. I want

to be done with this wardrobe tting. I asked if I could please just try on one-

pieces with board shorts, the way that I feel most comfortable in a bathing suit.

Being covered up. But our wardrobe designer said that The Creator explicitly

asked for bikinis, and so she had to at least have me try on one or two of them so

he had the option.

“Okay, take a few steps toward me so I can get a picture,” our wardrobe

designer tells me as she pulls her Polaroid camera up to her eyes.

I take a few steps forward. She snaps the photo.

“What do you say, want to try on the last bikini?” she asks me like she’s

tempting me. It confuses me when people throw a spin on the delivery of

something to overcompensate for the fact that the thing they’re delivering is

unpleasant.

“Can I just… um… can I not?” I ask. “Can I leave it at the one I just tried?”

“Well, he wants options,” the wardrobe designer says, pulling an

overexaggerated “you know him” kind of expression that doesn’t resonate.

Because I don’t know him. Not really. I’ve only met him a few times. He seems

eusive and boisterous to me, but Mom says she’s heard rumblings from crew

members that he’s got a “hair-trigger temper” and to “be sure not to get on his

bad side.”

I pick my nails.

“Come on, Net, just one more,” Mom urges me.

“Okay,” I say.

I try on the last bikini. It’s blue with a green stripe around the edges of it.

There are ties on the bottoms. I hate the way the ties trickle down my legs. I feel

sick to my stomach. I look at myself in the dressing room mirror.

I’m small. I know I’m small. But I worry that my body is ghting the

smallness. That it’s trying to develop. To grow. I feel like I’m barely hanging on

to my childlike body and the innocence that comes with it. I’m terried of being

looked at like a sexual being. It’s disgusting. I’m not that. I’m this. I’m a child.

I step out of the dressing room. The wardrobe designer snaps my picture.

“You look great,” the ever-sewing wardrobe assistant calls out again without

looking up.

32.

OUR LIPS ARE TOUCHING. HE’S moving his mouth around a bit, but I can’t move

mine. I’m frozen. His eyes are closed. Mine aren’t. Mine are wide open, staring

at him. It’s so odd, staring at a person while your faces are touching. I don’t like

it. I can smell his hair gel.

“Move your head around a bit more, Jennette!” The Creator yells from o-

camera.

Sometimes, even when the camera’s rolling, producers or directors shout

things o-camera. So long as they’re not overlapping a line of dialogue, the

editor can just take out the yelling in postproduction.

I try to do as The Creator tells me, I honestly try, but I can’t bring myself to

do it. My body is sti. Uninching. My body is rejecting my mind. My mind is

saying who cares that this is your rst kiss, that your rst kiss is on-camera. Get it

over with. Do what you’re told. My body is saying no, I don’t want this. I don’t

want my rst kiss to be like this. I want my rst kiss to be a real rst kiss, not a

kiss for a TV show.

I disdain the part of me that’s romantic. I’m embarrassed by it. Mom’s been

very clear about how boys are a waste of time and will only disappoint me, and

how I should just focus on my career, which I get. So I try to force it away. But as

much as I try to force it away, that romantic part of me is there. And it’s been

there for a while.

I wonder about boys sometimes. What it would be like to love one. I wonder

if one will ever love me. I fantasize about watching the Disneyland reworks

together, about holding hands, about resting my head on his chest, about

laughing together. I used to wonder about kissing. How it would work. It’s a

thing you can’t practice ahead of time. It just happens at some point. Do you

just go with it? Is it dicult? What do lips taste like? These are all questions that

now, in this moment, I have the answers to.

You try to just go with it, and if you’re Nathan, my co-star, it seems like you

can. But if you’re me, you can’t. If you’re me, you’re just thinking about every

single little thing that’s happening, and your mind is racing, and you can’t wait

for it to be over with. It is dicult. Lips taste like Blistex chapstick.

I start to wonder if all of this would be dierent if I loved the person. Maybe

that’s the secret ingredient. The missing piece. Maybe if I were kissing somebody

I loved, it would be magical and incredible and not this terrifying rush of anxiety.

“Cut!” The Creator yells o-camera, his mouth full of something. I hear his

footsteps as he pads over to us, carrying a paper plate piled with cheese slices and

unwrapped mini candy bars. The crew parts like the Red Sea, letting The

Creator pass by them and walk up to us.

The Creator looks me right in the eye but doesn’t say anything for four or

ve seconds. I almost start to laugh, thinking he might be messing with me for

fun like he does sometimes, but then I recognize that there is a deep anger in

him. This is no time for laughter. Finally, he speaks.

“Jennette. More. Head. Movement.”

He turns and walks away.

“WHY AREN’T WE ROLLING!” he shouts.

The cameras roll. We start the scene. I don’t even know the words coming out

of my mouth, but I trust that they must be the words that were written on the

page because nobody’s stopping me and saying I’m speaking gibberish. It’s an

out-of-body experience, doing the scene leading up to the kiss. My heart is

pounding. My hands are clammy. Here it comes here it comes here it comes.

We lean in. Our lips touch. Lips feel nasty. They’re like little gross eshy piles

of esh. It’s disgusting to be a person.

Shoot, I’m supposed to move my head. I start moving it. Back and forth.

Back and forth. I sway it around. It doesn’t feel natural so I’m sure it doesn’t

look natural. Nathan, as his character, Freddie, nally breaks away.

“Cut!” The Creator shouts. I can tell by his tone that he isn’t happy. He looks

to the assistant director.

“Do we have time for another?!”

“Not really, sir, we’ve gotta head to scene J if we’re gonna wrap on time.”

“Fine,” he says angrily. “That was not ideal but FINE, we’ll move on. I’ll be at

crafty!”

The Creator storms o, heading to crafty for his chips or his bagel or his

minestrone soup. I watch him go. I’m sad I didn’t please him.

“Hey, we’re done,” Nathan says kindly, knowing how nervous I was to do my

rst kiss on-screen with him.

“Yeah,” I say with a nervous half laugh. “We’re done.”

Just like that, my rst kiss is over with. And my second kiss, and my third kiss,

and my fourth and fth and sixth and seventh, technically, since we did seven

takes.

33.

“MAKE SURE YOU SMILE A lot. With teeth. When you do your no-teeth smile it

looks kind of forlorn,” Mom tells me as she changes lanes on the 405.

We’re on our way to a lunch meeting with The Creator. I’m nervous because

Mom says a lot is at stake. She thinks this could be an “I’m thinking of giving

you a spin-o” lunch date, since it’s very common for him to write spin-o

shows for characters of his current shows. I’ve thought about telling Mom I

think we might be disappointed if we put that expectation on it, but I haven’t

said a word. She does well when she has something in my life to look forward to.

“And don’t forget to act really interested in whatever he says. Really

engaged,” Mom tells me. “Try and make your eyes a little wider if you can, it’ll

help ’em pop.”

I nod along.

“One of us should bring up my cancer, too, to really get him on our side. I

can take that if you’d like…”

“Sure.”

“Great. Great great great,” Mom says excitedly.

We get to lunch right on time. The Creator’s already there, sunglasses on

even though he’s indoors. He lifts them up when he sees us. He stands up from

the booth, hugs Mom rst, and then hugs me into a tight squeeze, picking me

up o the ground.

“McCurdy Curds,” he says, nally setting me down as he repositions his

sunglasses. “My favorite little actress.”

Mom beams.

“You know, I work with a lot of young actresses. A lot of them are pretty,

some of them are funny, but none of them are as talented as you.”

Mom’s face looks like it’s gonna rip if she smiles any bigger. I smile too, with

my teeth like Mom specied.

“Thank you.”

“I mean it,” The Creator continues on, spooning some of the tuna tartar he

already ordered onto his appetizer plate. “You act circles around them. You

could win an Oscar someday.”

“Thank you.”

This is how conversations with The Creator usually start. He’ll heap the

compliments on, while undercutting other talent that he works with. I

appreciate the compliments. The Creator’s approval means a lot to me. He’s the

reason I’m a series regular on a television show. He’s the reason my family and I

don’t have to worry about money anymore. But at the same time, I wonder if

he’s trying to pit me and his other talent against one another. I wonder if he says

the same sorts of things to each of his talent so that we each stay in line and

think we’re in his good favor.

I wonder this because, now that we’ve worked on an entire season of

television together, I’ve had plenty of time to get familiar with The Creator’s

ways. To understand him.

I feel like The Creator has two distinct sides. One is generous and over-the-

top complimentary. He can make anyone feel like the most important person in

the world. I’ve seen him do this when he made the entire crew give our

production designer a ve-minute standing ovation for the jail set he built in two

days, or when he gave a speech thanking our stunt coordinator. The coordinator

cried with gratitude. The Creator knows how to make someone feel important.

The other side is mean-spirited, controlling, and terrifying. The Creator can

tear you down and humiliate you. I’ve seen him do this when he red a six-year-

old on the spot for messing up a few lines on a rehearsal day. And when a boom

operator accidentally dropped the boom into a shot and The Creator stomped

over to him and screamed in his face that he was responsible for ruining a

magical take and he hoped that he would regret it for the rest of his life. I’ve seen

The Creator make grown men and women cry with his insults and degradation

—he’ll call people idiots, buoons, stupid, dumb, sloppy, careless, retarded, and

spineless. The Creator knows how to make someone feel worthless.

That’s why I’ve learned with time that, as much as I want the compliments to

mean something to me, I can’t let them, because tomorrow he might be

screaming insults in my face that will hurt me just as much as the compliments

raise me up. I feel that I always need to be on guard around him. Catering to him

emotionally. I feel similarly around The Creator as I feel around Mom—on

edge, desperate to please, terried of stepping out of line. Put both of them

together in the same room and I’m overwhelmed.

The Creator orders main courses for us to share—something with lobster, a

pasta with meat, and a atbread. I know Mom won’t approve of me eating any

of these foods, but I know The Creator will be oended if I don’t eat them, and

he will comment on me not trusting him or thinking he has bad taste, so I pick

at the food as convincingly as I can, hoping The Creator will believe I’m eating

and Mom will know I’m not.

“So, the reason I invited you both to lunch…” The Creator starts. He takes a

long sip of his old fashioned while Mom watches him, eager for him to nish the

sentence in the way she wants it to be nished.

“Well, rst,” The Creator says, almost as if he’s intentionally dragging out the

tension as long as he possibly can, “let me ask you a question. How do you like

being recognized? Being famous?”

“She loves it,” Mom answers for me. “Absolutely loves it. And the fans adore

her, too. They almost always say she’s their favorite character.”

I poke at my pasta.

“All right, good,” The Creator says. “Because you’re gonna have a lot more of

it.”

Mom’s breath gets rapid with anticipation.

“… I want to give Jennette her own show.”

Mom accidentally drops her fork with excitement. It clinks against the plate.

“I even have the name picked out. Just Puckett. Idn’t that a fun name for your

own show?” Dan asks with a smirk.

“Yes, yes it is! It’s a very fun name,” Mom chimes in.

“It can’t happen for a while, because iCarly’s doing too well,” The Creator

says, trying to temper Mom’s excitement. She nods along.

“We’ll have to wait a couple years,” The Creator reiterates. “But if you keep

doing what you’re doing and listen to me, take my advice, and let me guide you,

I promise you I’ll give you your own show.”

“Oh, thank you,” Mom says, tears welling in her eyes. “My baby deserves it.

My baby deserves it.”

Mom looks over at me and nods, urging me to smile with teeth. So I do. Even

though I’m concerned. The Creator was very clear that his oer had a

contingent—me listening to him, taking his advice, and letting him guide me.

And even though a part of me appreciates The Creator, a part of me is scared of

him, and the idea that I’ll have to do everything he wants is intimidating to me.

“Why don’t you seem happier? You’re getting your own show,” Mom says on

our drive home.

“I am happy,” I lie. “Very happy.”

“Good,” Mom says as she glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Because you

should be. Everyone wants what you have.”

34.

I’VE BEEN ON ICARLY FOR almost three years now, and in some ways, things are

easier. My friendship with Miranda has been a source of camaraderie and

emotional support. I’m friends with the rest of the cast too, but my connection

with Miranda is dierent and special. We Skype on the weekends and see movies

at ArcLight after work. I now go there twice a week without batting an eye.

Mom always joins. She’ll lean over to me midway through the movie, her head

bowing in resignation. “Their sound is very surrounded.”

More important than my friendship with Miranda, Mom’s not as stressed

about the two things she’s typically most stressed about: bills and my body.

Even though the consistency of my paychecks has helped bring Mom some

nancial comfort and stability, she makes her opinion of the size of those

paychecks well-known.

“They should be ashamed of the salary they give you. Compared to network

TV, it’s jelly beans. JELLY BEANS,” she tells me every day in my dressing room

while she changes my clothes for me. “And no residuals either with Nickelodeon

—or should I say Nickel-and-Dime-Alodeon.”

Despite her complaints, I know deep down she’s grateful, because this is a big

step up from where we were before. The house payments are made on time and

in full, and she no longer has to call bill collectors and beg for extensions.

She still monitors my lunches, but sometimes she lets me eat the food on set.

My dinners are still mostly iceberg lettuce with dressing spray and ripped-up

pieces of low-calorie bologna, but she’ll give me two Smart Ones cookies for

dessert. And my breakfasts have totally transformed. She makes me breakfast,

which I never imagined would happen. She’ll pour 2% milk on top of

Honeycomb cereal—2%, not nonfat! And sure, Honeycomb cereal is still “one

of the lowest-calorie breakfast cereals per gram,” as Mom says (160 calories for

1¾ cups), but this is crazy. I’ve never seen her support eating like this.

A part of me wonders if Mom is supporting my meals a bit more because

Miranda and Nathan eat breakfast and lunch in our joint schoolroom and it

might look weird if I don’t, or if I eat much less than them or something. But I

don’t ask her. I just let it happen.

My body is shifting a bit. My nipple buds have become very tiny breasts, and

it’s getting harder to hide them with my undershirt-pulled-through-underwear-

legs technique. My skin is breaking out a bit too, which is new and weird and

embarrassing. This past year, I’ve started wearing makeup on set, and even on my

o days. I used to hate makeup, but now I want to wear it. To hide behind it.

I recently started shaving my legs, too—well, Mom does it for me, because she

still showers me even though I’m sixteen. I didn’t even know shaving legs was a

thing until I heard a co-star’s mom making fun of my “hairy legs” to my co-star,

and then she laughed in a way that has haunted me every time I’ve shaved my

legs since.

So now, even though Mom isn’t as stressed about bills or my body, my legs

are smooth and my nipples are past bud stage and my skin is red and bumpy in

places and all of this feels awkward to me.

The show has progressively grown in popularity. Susan keeps throwing

around terms like “cultural phenomenon” and “global sensation.” The more the

show’s exploded, the more my fame has too. I’ve been on countless red carpets

for fancy events and award shows and movie premieres. I’ve done talk shows like

Good Morning America and The Today Show and Craig Ferguson and Bonnie

Hunt’s new one.

I can’t go places anymore without being recognized. I no longer go to

Disneyland, my favorite place, because last time I tried, I was walking down

Main Street and so many people came up to me that they had to stop the

Christmas Fantasy Parade midway through. Goofy looked pissed.

The kind of fame I have now is causing me a level of stress that I did not

know was possible. I know everybody wants it, and everybody tells me how

lucky I am to have it, but I hate it. I feel constantly on edge whenever I leave the

house to go anywhere. I’m worried that strangers will come up to me and I get

very anxious when interacting with strangers.

They’ll shout things at me like, “SAM! Where’s your fried chicken?!” or

“Can you hit me with your buttersock?!” A buttersock is a prop my character

frequently uses, and it’s exactly what it sounds like: a sock lled with butter. My

character carries it around to “beat people up” with.

Whenever someone shouts at me about chicken or socks, I’ll laugh like it’s a

good one even though it’s not a good one. I’ve heard this good one thousands of

times, and it was a bad one from the get-go, but it only morphs into a worse one

with each time I hear it. I’m shocked by how many people think they’re original

and say the same thing.

I’m so unimpressed by people. Even irritated by them. At times even

disgusted by them. I don’t know exactly when this happened, but I know it’s a

relatively recent switch and I know fame had something to do with it. I’m tired

of people approaching me like they own me. Like I owe them something. I

didn’t choose this life. Mom did.

My anxiety causes me to be a people pleaser. My anxiety causes me to take the

picture and sign my autograph and say it’s a good one. But underneath that

anxiety is a deep, unearthed combination of feelings that I fear to face. I fear that

I’m bitter. I’m too young to be bitter. Especially as a result of a life that people

supposedly envy. And I fear that I resent my mother. The person I have lived for.

My idol. My role model. My one true love.

This complicated feeling crops up when I take a picture with a stranger and I

see Mom standing o to the side, mirroring the smile she wants me to have.

It happens when she tells the person taking the picture to “Get one more! Or

two more, just in case!” when she knows how much I dislike this whole thing.

It happens when she has me practice my autographs and tells me “It’s getting

sloppy. Little C, Big C, U-R-D-Y. They need to be able to read every letter.”

It happens when she pitches me on what slogan to write to accompany my

autographs. “See ya at the movies!” is the current winner, and Lord knows why.

I’m not even in movies, I’m on TV. And kids’ TV, at that—which, if anything,

almost guarantees the fact that I will never be in any movies. The transition from

child stardom to a legitimate career as an adult in the entertainment industry is a

notoriously tough one—even for young actors blessed with roles in credible

lms with credible directors. But for kids who start out on kids’ TV, it’s a career

death sentence. There’s something about the one-dimensional, overly glossy

image combined with the extent of the public recognition of that image that

makes it nearly impossible to overcome. The second the child star tries to

outgrow and break free from their image, they become bait for the media, highly

publicized as rebellious, troubled, and tortured, when all they’re trying to do is

grow. Growing is wobbly and full of mistakes, especially as a teenager—mistakes

that you certainly don’t want to make in the public eye, let alone be known for

for the rest of your life. But that’s what happens when you’re a child star. Child

stardom is a trap. A dead end. And I can see that even if Mommy can’t.

Fame has put a wedge between Mom and me that I didn’t think was possible.

She wanted this. And I wanted her to have it. I wanted her to be happy. But now

that I have it, I realize that she’s happy and I’m not. Her happiness came at the

cost of mine. I feel robbed and exploited.

Sometimes I look at her and I just hate her. And then I hate myself for feeling

that. I tell myself I’m ungrateful. I’m worthless without her. She’s everything to

me. Then I swallow the feeling I wish I hadn’t had, tell her “I love you so much,

Nonny Mommy,” and I move on, pretending that it never happened. I’ve

pretended for my job for so long, and for my mom for so long, and now I’m

starting to think I’m pretending for myself too.

35.

IT’S A SUNDAY MORNING AND everyone else in the house is asleep. I reheat the

mug of Mom’s favorite raspberry royale tea that I rst made an hour ago and

wake her with it.

“Mommy,” I say gently. “Here’s your tea.”

“Nnnnn,” Mom half groans in her sleep while she twists onto her other side.

I eye the clock nervously, debating whether or not to keep trying to wake her.

This is the third time I’ve tried, and technically the latest possible time I could

wake her without us being late.

“Mommy,” I say with a bit more urgency in my tone. “We have to leave for

church in twenty minutes or we won’t make it in time.”

“NNNNN,” Mom groans more aggressively.

“Do you not wanna go?” I ask.

“Mmm too tirrrrr,” Mom mutters. Then she swallows and the words come

out a little clearer. “I’ve worked too hard lately. I’m too tired.”

She burrows her face deeper into the pillow and her breathing gets heavy. I

study her.

I’m tired too. I’ve worked hard lately too. I actually think I’ve worked a lot

harder than Mom has. And then I feel guilty for thinking this.

She does drive me to and from work, which has to be tiring, a part of me thinks.

Yeah, but I do homework on the drive, plus memorize lines, then spend ten hours on

set rehearsing and performing and being “on” under bright lights and intense

pressure, while she sits up in my dressing room perusing Woman’s World and

gossiping with my co-stars’ moms, the other part of me thinks.

I try and swallow these conicting parts of me. They’re unhelpful and

distracting from the issue that needs to be resolved right now—whether or not

we’re going to church.

We haven’t been to church in six months, our longest stretch ever. I’m

concerned about this, but I’ve brought it up to Mom as much as I can without

making things uncomfortable, and she just keeps reassuring me that we’ll

“denitely go back someday, when things settle down a bit.”

I nd it strange that we’ve stopped going to church since my career has taken

o and Mom’s health has normalized. I tried to broach the subject gently one

night when we were driving home from work, but Mom started screaming and

saying she was losing control of the steering wheel and that I was causing her

tremendous stress that was putting both of us in danger, so I quickly learned to

never bring up the subject again.

But now, in this moment, as I’m looking down at her sleeping, I’m starting to

accept for the rst time that our church days may very well be behind us. I guess

Makaylah was right after all.

I used to think going inactive was a terrible thing, a sin to be ashamed of. But

maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a sign that things are going right.

Maybe people go to church because they want things from God. And they

keep going while they’re wishing and yearning and longing for those things. But

then maybe once they get those things, they realize they don’t need church

anymore. Who needs God when you’ve got clear mammograms and a series

regular role on Nickelodeon?

I let her sleep and start memorizing my lines for Monday.

36.

“I HAVE A STOMACHACHE,” I tell mom as we walk back from ArcLight Café,

where we met with my manager Susan for a quick lunch.

“Maybe the chicken on the salad was bad,” Mom oers of the no blue cheese,

no egg, no croutons, no dressing, no bacon Cobb salad—aka grilled chicken and

lettuce—that we split for lunch.

“Maybe.”

We’re running down Sunset Boulevard to make it back to set on time. A half

hour is hardly enough time for a lunch break, especially if you try to have it

outside of set.

“Smile for the paparazzi,” Mom orders me.

Without even spotting them, a vacant puppetlike smile crosses my face

automatically. My eyes are dead, my soul is nowhere to be found, but a smile is

on my face and that’s all that counts.

FLASH, FLASH, FLASH. The light hurts my eyes.

“Hi, Glen!” Mom shouts to a paparazzo like he’s her neighbor.

“Hi, Deb!” Glen says as he walks backward while snapping more photos. I’m

shocked that Mom doesn’t seem aware of how strange this whole interaction is.

We approach Nickelodeon Studios and cross into the parking lot. My smile

immediately falls o my face. We race into my dressing room so I can change

into my wardrobe for the next scene, and I go to the bathroom to take a quick

pee beforehand. That’s when I see it.

Blood. On my underwear. I’m immediately dizzy. I’m not exactly sure what

this is, but I think it might be my period.

I rst learned about a period—sort of—six years ago. I was ten, my neighbor

Teresa was ten-and-eleven months. She never let me forget our eleven-month age

gap, whether in attitude or explicit reminders.

“Do you know what a period is, or not? I feel like maybe you don’t, since I’m

older than you and know more things.”

“Sure,” I said, assuming she meant the period that comes at the end of a

sentence.

“No, not that period. The other period.”

“Yeah,” I said again, thinking she must’ve meant a period in time.

“Again, not that period. The other period.”

I racked my brain to think of what Teresa could possibly mean, then I had it.

“Oh. Yeah.” I’m satised with myself, thinking, Duh, a class period, like for

high school.

“You do?” Teresa was clearly suspicious.

“Yeah.”

“Well I got mine. And I was scared at rst to see the blood, but my mom

taught me how to use pads and stu. Then I went to HomeTown Buet with all

the women in my family to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” I asked innocently, as I desperately tried to use context

clues to gure out what kind of period Teresa was talking about. It denitely

wasn’t a class one. Nobody would celebrate that.

“To celebrate becoming one of them. Becoming a woman.”

Teresa said it like it was something she’d been wanting her entire life, like it

was some romantic, incredible, alluring thing. Becoming a woman. I was

confused. I envied several things in Teresa’s life—her pinball machine, her

collection of Barbies (especially the ones with the short hair that Mom would

never let me get because she thought it might make me want to cut mine), and

yes, even her trip to HomeTown Buet—a restaurant that my family deemed

too expensive. But I did not envy her becoming a woman. Becoming a woman

was the last thing I wanted.

Now, as I’m sitting here on the toilet with my blood-spotted underwear at my

knees, I’m sure this is it. This is the thing Teresa was talking about.

“Um, Mommy,” I call out.

Mom asks me what’s up, and I swallow how mortied I am so that I can utter

my next sentence.

“I’m bleeding.”

The door bursts open before I even get to the “ing” in bleeding, and Mom

wraps me in a big bear hug. While I’m on the toilet.

“Oh, Sweetie,” she says with the gravity of someone consoling a friend who’s

just lost their beloved pet. “Oh, Sweetie, I’m so sorry.”

Mom wraps a long strip of toilet paper around her hand and tells me to stu

it in my underwear while she goes to get Patti, my soft-spoken schoolteacher.

I watch the clock tick by ten minutes of slow-burning hell until Mom returns

with Patti. Patti whips out of her back pocket a baby-pink wrapped square with

a little strip of white tape across it. She wags it in front of my face like it’s a

hundred-dollar bill. She beams and pulls me into a warm embrace while Mom

runs o to tell the AD why I’m running late.

“Congratulations, Jennette,” Patti says softly into my ear. “Congratulations

on becoming a woman.”

I trudge onto our school hallway set, where our next scene is taking place. I

can tell by the way the PAs and ADs are treating me that they’ve all heard the

news. I’m humiliated. And ashamed. How did I let this happen? How did I

become a woman? I don’t know the answer, but I know the solution. I know

what I’ll do to x this.

Tomorrow there won’t be any 2% milk or Honeycomb or Smart Ones. I’ve

been slacking and the slacking needs to stop. I need to get back to anorexia. I

need to be a kid again.

37.

Mama I promise I’ll be all right

I’ll call to say I love you every night

I’m just trying to write the story of my liiiiiife

MOM AND I ARE SITTING in our room at the Hampton Inn & Suites in

downtown Nashville, Tennessee, where we’ve been living for the past three

months while I work on my country music career. We’re splitting a Nutrisystem

frozen lasagna dinner (we ordered the monthlong program to keep each other

on track since Nashville has “so much more lard than LA,” as Mom says) while

listening to the nal mix of my rst single “Not That Far Away,” a song written

from “my” point of view (by a couple of songwriters I sat next to for a few

hours) to my mother, about being on the road without her and how much I

miss her, even though in reality I’ve never spent more than a few hours away

from her in all my eighteen years.

I don’t know much about music, but I know as I listen to this song that I

nd the rhythm un-rhythmic, the melody one-note, and the production

outdated. I express none of these thoughts because of how much Mom loves it.

Tears are streaming down her cheeks. Granted, I don’t think they’re just tears of

joy. There’s a weight to them too, a signicance, and I think I know why. Life has

imitated art, if you can call this song that. (You can’t.)

My music career initially started as a result of the writers’ strike of ’07, when

iCarly was put on indenite hiatus until things got settled. During that hiatus,

Susan suggested I start working with songwriters to put together demos to work

toward a recording contract, because “that’s what all the teen actors are doing

nowadays.” Susan represents Hilary Du, who’s had several albums go

platinum.

“And I heard she doesn’t even sing all the songs—that her sister sings half of

’em!” Mom chimed in excitedly. “No need to conrm or deny. My Nettie’s

gonna sing all her own songs.”

Mom had me start posting covers on YouTube. Record labels saw those

covers and two, Big Machine Records and Capitol Records Nashville, wanted to

sign me. Mom decided on Capitol Records, because “Scott Borschetta’s gonna

be too busy with that Taylor chick; he won’t have time for you.”

So I signed with Capitol Records and lived here in Nashville for three months

last summer to work on songwriting. Then iCarly started back, so I worked on

the show Mondays through Fridays, ew out to Nashville on Friday night red-

eyes, had songwriting sessions, laid down demos, took meetings, and did photo

shoots for album cover artwork and various press releases, then ew back to

California Sunday night to be ready for the show rehearsals on Monday.

Currently the show is between seasons, so Mom and I are living here for a few

months while I prep for my rst tour.

I suspect this tour is going to be my rst time away from Mom. And not

because she’s told me that outright, but because we share an email account and I

saw an outgoing message from her to Marcus, where she told him the very thing

I’d been dreading for my entire life.

“How come you’re crying, Mommy?” I ask her as tears spill out of her eyes.

Mom arranges a bite of lasagna on her fork, then sets the lasagna’d fork back

down in the frozen-dinner tray, as if taking a bite of it would just be too much

for her right now in her emotional state.

“You just sound so beautiful,” she says, but I know she’s lying. Mom’s I-

think-you-did-well joy is not at all a tearful joy. It’s more of an exhilarated,

amped-up kind of joy. This here, whatever I’m witnessing right now, is

something more, something deeper. I wish she’d tell me. I wish she’d just admit

what I already know.

“Mommy…” I trail o, terried for what I’m about to ask. Even though I

already know what’s happening, I want to believe it can’t be true. I need to hear

it from Mom. I need to conrm it.

“So much power in your voice. The chorus is really just… wow.” Mom blots

her eyes with a Kleenex.

“Mommy,” I say again, slightly louder this time. I’m terried of knowing, but

I’m even more terried of not knowing.

“… And then when you get back into the verse and you go to your lower

sultry thing.”

“Mommy, do you have cancer again?”

I feel the color drain from my face right after I ask it. I’ve shocked myself that

these words have come out of my mouth. I feel frozen. Mom looks just as

shocked as I do. Her tears stop.

“What? No.” She tries to laugh it o. “Why would you think that?”

I take a deep breath because I know she’s lying right to my face, and I know

she’s doing that to try and make me less scared, but it’s making me more scared.

Why is she lying to me about something so signicant?

“I saw your email to Marcus. Where you said your cancer came back.”

Mom looks down and the tears return, no dierent from the ones a half

minute ago. My heart feels heavy as I watch her little body shake and heave with

sadness. I get up from my seat at the desk and sit next to her on the edge of the

bed. I hug her. She feels so small in my arms.

“I don’t want to miss your tour,” she sobs, sounding like she really means it.

I’m baed. How can she care about that stupid tour right now?

“I’m not gonna go on the tour,” I say, like it’s as obvious of a decision as it

feels to me.

Mom breaks away from our hug and lifts her head as her sadness switches to

anger.

“Net, you have to go on this tour. Don’t talk crazy like that, okay? You scare

me when you talk like that. You have to go on this tour, no matter what, all

right? You’re gonna be a country music star.”

“Okay.”

Mom goes back to crying. I go back to hugging her.

38.

THE GENERATION LOVE TOUR IS a mission to get my new single, “Generation

Love,” on the radio. The reps at Capitol have arranged for me to perform for a

bunch of radio stations across the country, in what they consider an

“unconventional radio tour.” Most artists go perform radio tours in the

soundproof boxes that are radio stations, in the hopes of impressing a few radio

execs enough for the execs to add the artist’s song to their lineup, but my label

suggested that we leverage my fanbase from iCarly to show radio heads the

“value” I carry. So instead of performing in soundproof boxes to two or three

radio reps, I’ll be performing in each radio station region’s local mall to

thousands of screaming tweens.

Our rst stop is in Hartford, Connecticut, or maybe it’s Philly, Pennsylvania.

It’s hard to keep the schedule straight. Regardless, I get used to it quickly

enough.

I wake up at eight, groggy. We usually have a few hours left to drive on the

bus, then Stewy, our bus driver, pulls into the motel that the label’s rented for a

half day, just enough time so that each of us on the bus can shower. I go rst,

and then Paul, the sweet guitarist with the thick twang, goes next. I have a crush

on him. Josh, the other guitarist, who looks like a shorter, beeer Conan

O’Brien, goes after that. Then goes Dave, the earring-wearing videographer

documenting the tour. Next is whoever this week’s regional representative from

the record label is, then the press representative from the label.

While the rest of the group is showering, I do press on the bus. We nd a

place to eat lunch, then have a sound check, then we have two or so hours to kill

before the show. After the show, I sign autographs for three hours, get back on

the bus, and then Stewy drives us to the next place.

The experience itself is overwhelming, performing in malls for thousands of

kids. I get so nervous that I practice the songs twenty to thirty times before our

set begins, and sometimes blow out my voice before I even get onstage. Press and

the autograph signings afterward are emotionally exhausting. There are a few

interactions that feel worthwhile, that seem like this experience actually means

something to the kids and their families, but the rest of the crowd just feels like

sheep to me.

“Hey, Samantha Puckett! How’d you get outta juvie?!”

“Ha ha, good one.”

“Where’s your fried chicken?”

“Ha ha, good one.”

“Do you really beat up people in real life?”

“Ha ha, good one.”

My dead-soul smile spreads across my face and I look in their cameras while

their mom apologizes fteen times for not knowing how to operate it.

But other than the work itself, there are two things I’m noticing about this

tour.

The rst thing I’m noticing is that a part of me is enjoying myself. The part of

me that doesn’t feel guilty for enjoying myself in the midst of such unfortunate

circumstances—Mom’s cancer and being away from her while she faces it with

frequent rounds of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. This enjoying-

myself part of me feels fresh and new and exhilarating. I feel free. I’m even able

to shower myself.

I’m realizing for the rst time how exhausting it is to constantly curate my

natural tendencies, responses, thoughts, and actions into whatever version Mom

would like most. Without her around, I don’t have to. I miss her deeply, and my

heart aches over what she’s going through, and I certainly feel a lot of guilt about

the ease I feel these days, but that ease is undeniable. Without her monitoring

and weighing in on my every move, my life feels much easier.

The second thing I’m noticing is that I’m eating. A lot. I’ll eat cinnamon

Pop-Tarts in the mornings, then I’ll eat lunch and dinner with the band, both

meals out. And I’ll order from the adult menu. And rarely salads. And rarely

substitutes. Burgers and fries.

Without being monitored by Mom, each bite I take feels rebellious. I hear her

voice at every meal, telling me, “Dressing on the side. No more bites. That’s

junky. You don’t want a watermelon butt. Mind over matter.” But her voice

can’t stop me from eating. I’m horried by this reality, but simultaneously

drawn to what’s on my plate with an attraction that can only be described as

lust.

The fullness I feel after my meals is nice. And new to me. But it’s immediately

usurped by a deep sense of guilt. Guilt that this is not what Mom would want.

That Mom would be disappointed in me. The guilt drives me to eat more—

boxes of Cheez-Its and store-bought cookies and pieces of candy or Fruit Roll-

Ups or whatever goodies are on the bus—sometimes until my stomach aches

and feels like it’s about to burst. I go to bed unable to sleep on my stomach

because I’m so overstued. I weigh myself in the hotel rooms that have scales in

them, and the number keeps climbing, climbing, climbing. I’m horried with

every pound gained but also feel unable to stop. I have been starving myself for

years, and now my body is begging for me to stu myself.

This new relationship to food deeply confuses me. For years I have been in

control of my diet, my body, myself. I have kept myself rail-thin and my body

childlike and I have found the perfect combination of power and solace in that.

But now I feel out of control. Reckless. Hopeless. The old combination of

power and solace is replaced by a new combination of shame and chaos. I do not

understand what is happening to me. I am terried of what will happen when

Mom sees me.

39.

I DID NOT EXPECT A hampton Inn & Suites to be the place where I have my rst

real kiss, and yet here we are. Room 223. I’m standing in front of the kitchenette

and my lips are touching Lucas’s. He’s holding my chin softly. I can’t tell

whether I like that or not, but I do like the kiss. It’s more natural when you like

the person than when you’re doing it on-camera.

He pulls away.

“I really like you. Have a good night,” he says, or I think he says. I don’t really

know what he’s saying. And I don’t entirely care. I’m too busy in my head,

thinking about the fact that I’m eighteen years old and I nally just had my rst

kiss. Finally.

I watch him walk down the hallway. I don’t like the cut of his jeans or his

long hair, but I like his Queen shirt and the shape of his sneakers. I don’t like

how much he talks about music, but I like how much he likes me. I don’t like

how awkward he is, but I like how nice he is. I shut the door behind him. My

vagina feels funny but I gure I’ll worry about that later.

I shut the door and sit down on the couch. I don’t know why in movies

women always shut the door and then lean against it after the guy leaves. Couch

sitting is much more natural.

I’m sitting here going over it all in my mind. Lucas and I rst met a few

months back when I had a show here in Nashville. He was hired to be the

bandleader and play electric guitar for the show. The other band members said

he was really good. The best in town.

We spent a lot of time together that rst week while we were all rehearsing.

He was very nice to me, and at rst I didn’t think much of it, since he’s twenty-

seven and I’m eighteen, but then I noticed him looking at me a lot and I started

to wonder if maybe he liked me.

By the third rehearsal day, he started oering me rides home, which I took

because I was starting to like him. I felt queasy around him in an uncomfortable

but good way. On the last rehearsal day, he invited me to come into his house

and listen to a Queen album with him. I was so excited.

We listened to News of the World front to back while sitting on his wooden

oor. He kept scooting closer to me and brushing his hair behind his ear, which

was mildly repulsive to me coming from a man. That repulsion confused me

because at the same time I deeply wanted him to kiss me. Or maybe it’s not that I

wanted him to kiss me, maybe it’s just that I wanted to be kissed in real life.

Either way, he didn’t. He drove me home to the Hampton Inn and dropped me

o. And then the next day I left for the radio tour.

I didn’t see him much during tour because he wasn’t on the road with us the

entire time, but he was own out for a few of the shows, the ones not in malls

but rather on bigger festival stages when we did full-band sets instead of acoustic

ones. In between seeing him, we’d text every day and have phone calls whenever I

got some privacy, which is hard to come by on a tour bus. He’d say things like “I

miss you so much” and “I really really really like you,” both of which made me

uncomfortable but I didn’t know why. On one hand, I liked that he was saying

these things to me. On the other hand, I felt physically unable to say them back,

like I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.

I’d get excited to talk to him but then the excitement waned whenever we’d

actually talk. He’d talk about music and reference all these dierent songs that I

didn’t know, which was ne, if there were other things we talked about too. But

there really weren’t. It was either music or he’d be showering me with generic

compliments like “the sun rises and sets in your eyes” or “you’re my favorite

person I’ve ever met.”

The few times that he joined us for festival dates were okay but a bit awkward

since the rest of the band was around too. There was no space for private

conversations, and yet I was all right with that. When Lucas tried to pull me

aside to have one, I’d come up with excuses for why I couldn’t. I was tired,

needed to prepare for press, practice my songs, respond to emails from my

managers or Mom or Miranda. I’ve been so unsure about him for the past

month.

But now the tour’s over and I’m back in Nashville for a week to record some

new songs. And I’m staying at the Hampton Inn, room 223. And I’m sitting on

the couch in 223, processing the fact that I just had my rst kiss with him. And

as much as I’m relieved to have my rst kiss over with, I’m even more relieved to

know that now I am sure about him. I’m sure I need to end this, whatever this is.

I pull out my phone to text him, but just as I’m about to, there’s an odd pulse

in my vagina. It feels warm. I reach my hand into my pants and pull it out. My

ngers are wet. This is gross. I need to shower. I’ll text him after.

40.

I’M WALKING OFF THE PLANE and tugging my shirt down so it lies at. I’m

sucking in and trying to look as thin as possible. “Maybe Mom won’t notice.

Maybe if I tug my shirt again she won’t notice; maybe if I hold my breath for ten

seconds she won’t notice,” says my OCD voice, formerly known as my Still

Small Voice, but which I’ve since accepted as the pounding voice of mental

illness. It’s more sporadic than it used to be, and almost exclusively related to

food and my body, but it’s still here.

I take a deep breath and step on the escalator heading toward baggage claim.

A young dad with a nervous laugh asks for a picture for his daughters.

“Sure, as soon as we get o the—” He starts arranging the girls in front of me

before I can nish my sentence. He snaps a picture just as he nearly trips o the

escalator. He nervous laughs again.

As I step o the escalator, I look out to the lineup of people waiting and there

I see her. The sight of her shocks me, and for a moment I’m more focused on her

appearance than I am on mine.

She’s lost a dozen or so pounds, which is hugely noticeable on someone with

as small a frame as she has. Her face is gaunt and sickly. Her bones protrude

from under her skin. She doesn’t have any eyebrows or eyelashes. She’s wearing

the turquoise Ugg hat I got her for Christmas to cover up her bald head. I’m

shocked at the sight of her. I don’t know what to say.

Dad is standing next to her but he might as well not be. I can’t focus on

anything but her. I can’t believe she didn’t warn me of this in any of our ve

daily calls.

By the time we exchange hugs and “I love yous,” I’ve settled slightly. I’ve

adjusted just enough to be able to take in Mom’s reaction, which is the same

reaction as mine toward her: a combination of shock and horror with a vacant

smile on top.

I feel sick to my stomach while I wait for her to tell me how ugly I am. How

fat I’ve gotten. How I’ve made horrible mistakes. How I’m incapable of

handling life on my own. Of keeping myself in order. I brace myself while we

pile into the car (a Kia Sorento replaced our old Ford Windstar).

“Net, what happened?” She doesn’t face me when she asks it. She stays

looking out the window at the bumper-to-bumper trac on the 5. “You’re

getting chunky.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“We’ve gotta get you on a diet. This is getting out of hand.”

“I know.”

I’m full of remorse, for sure. But there’s also a piece of me that picks up a

little bit of enthusiasm, a little bit of a lift in spirit, because this is the mom I

know. She’s not weak, or frail, or soft, or beaten down by cancer like whoever

the person was that I saw as soon as I got to baggage claim. Whoever that wilted

excuse of a person was, I refuse to believe that person is my mother. The mom I

know is the person sitting in front of me, the person who is strong-willed and

forceful and sometimes vicious. This is the mom I know.

41.

“COME ON, TAKE A SIP.”

“No thanks.”

“Come on.”

“I’ve never had alcohol before. And I’m only eighteen. Couldn’t I get in

trouble?”

“No one’s looking, Jennetter. You’re ne.”

“I dunno.”

“The Victorious kids get drunk together all the time. The iCarly kids are so

wholesome. We need to give you guys a little edge.”

The Creator always compares us iCarly kids to the kids on his other hit show,

Victorious. I think he thinks it’ll make us try harder.

“I don’t know if drinking is what gives a person edge.”

I look at The Creator’s drink. He picks it up and sloshes it around. It’s some

sort of whiskey mixed with coee and cream. I do like coee.

“One sip.”

“Okay.”

The Creator hands me his glass and I take a sip. I hate it.

“It’s great.”

“Don’t lie to me. I don’t like when you lie to me.”

“I hate it.”

“That’s better, Jennetter.”

The Creator laughs. I’ve done well. I’ve pleased him. Mission accomplished.

It’s the same mission I have every time I get dinner with him, which has gotten

more and more frequent lately as my new contract for the spin-o he promised

me is being worked out. The Creator is doing the thing that I’ve heard from my

co-stars he does with every new star of a show that he’s making—he takes you

under his wing. You’re his favorite. For now. I like being his favorite for now. I

feel like I’m doing something right.

“So are you excited to have your own show?” The Creator asks.

“Sure.”

“Sure? That’s it?”

“No, of course I’m excited. I’m so excited.”

“Good. ’Cuz I could give a new show to anyone, you know. But I didn’t

choose anyone. I chose you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, I chose you because you’re talented.”

I’m confused. He just said he could choose anyone, which made me feel not

special and now he’s saying he chose me because I’m talented, which makes me

feel special again. This kind of confusion is normal around him. I take a sip of

water while I try and gure out what to say next. Luckily, I don’t have to.

“How’d you like the steak?”

“It was good.”

It was terrible, actually. Well, great and terrible. Great in terms of avor,

terrible in terms of how much I’m gonna be xating on it for the rest of the

night. I ate too much of it, and too many roasted potatoes, and too many

brussels sprouts, and a roll, and glazed carrots. I couldn’t stop myself. I ate

everything. I feel so full. I’m disgusted with myself.

Mom’s got me on a Nutrisystem diet again like we did back when we were in

Nashville. We do it together, when we’re together. But that’s the thing—we’re

not together as often these days. She’s consumed with her cancer stu and I’m

consumed with my TV stu.

When Mom’s not around to motivate and coach me, I can’t seem to force

myself to eat a cardboard cinnamon roll that tastes more like a protein bar

wrapped around itself. I can’t seem to order the dressing-less salad. I can’t keep

up my diet without Mom. I’m a failure without her.

“Are you okay?” The Creator asks.

“Of course.”

“Good, ’cuz you should be okay,” he says gently. “You’re about to star in your

own TV show, for crying out loud. You know how many kids would kill for that

opportunity? Every last one of them.”

I nod along. He reaches out and places his hand on my knee. I get goose

bumps.

“You’re cold,” he says, concerned.

I don’t think that’s why I got the goose bumps, but I agree. It’s always best to

agree with The Creator.

“Here, take my jacket.”

He takes his coat o and drapes it around me. He pats my shoulders and then

the pat turns into a massage.

“Oof, you’re so tense!”

“Yeah…”

“Anyway, what was I saying?” he asks while he keeps massaging me. My

shoulders do have a lot of knots in them, but I don’t want The Creator to be the

one rubbing them out. I want to say something, to tell him to stop, but I’m so

scared of oending him.

“Oh, right,” he says, remembering his train of thought without my help.

“Every kid out there would kill for an opportunity like the one you’ve got.

You’re very lucky, Jennetter.”

“I know,” I say while he keeps rubbing me.

And I do. I do know. I’m so lucky.

42.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE MY baby girl is moving away,” Mom says, in a way that’s

dierent from how Grandma would say it. Grandma would be weeping and

saying it loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Mom says it quietly and can

hardly make eye contact. Unlike her bill extension calls with Sprint PCS, this is

not for show. I appreciate the ways in which Mom is dierent from her mother.

“It’s just for work days. I’ll come home on the weekends if I don’t have to go

to Nashville.”

Mom sighs.

“That’s a big ‘if.’ I’m hardly gonna see my baby. Who’s gonna keep your

eating on track? How are you gonna shampoo your hair?”

“Well, I did it on tour.”

“Yeah, but I saw pictures. It looked greasy.” She snies.

“It’s just the best option, since I don’t drive and you can’t anymore.”

Even though it’s just a fact, Mom looks down. I can tell I’ve hurt her feelings.

“I might be able to drive again someday,” she says timidly, like a child would

to seek reassurance from an adult.

“I know you might,” I say with loaded positivity, the way an adult would to

reassure a child.

We both look at her wheelchair, the wheelchair she’s recently been given to

utilize “when she needs,” an allotment that has gotten more and more frequent

by the day. In the moment her doctor told her he thought she could use one, we

both pretended it would be fun. She said I could push her around at Disneyland

and I said yay. Then I went into the hospital bathroom and sobbed but there was

no toilet paper left in the stall so I used a toilet seat cover to dry my eyes. And

then I went back out and said yay again.

This goddamned wheelchair is the furthest thing from a fucking yay. It’s a

death sentence. Neither of us can admit it, but that’s what it is. Once you’re a

cancer patient with a wheelchair, you’re never gonna be one without it. You’re

gonna die a wheelchairing cancer patient. Fuck this.

“All right, sorry about that,” Grandpa says as he comes out of the house to

meet us in the driveway. “I’m ready to go now. Clean pants.” He gestures to the

pants he just changed into after spilling his entire tumbler of coee on the rst

pair.

I take a seat in the back, surrounded by the moving boxes I already piled into

the Kia. I watch as Grandpa lifts Mom into the shotgun seat, folds her

wheelchair up, and piles it into the trunk. And with that, we’re o to my

apartment. My rst-ever solo apartment.

We pull up to the Burbank complex a little over an hour later. The complex is

okay. It wouldn’t have been my rst choice, but it makes sense logistically. My

new managers (I switched during season three of iCarly) arranged for

Nickelodeon to pay for my lodging here and for a production assistant to take

me to and from work. (I don’t drive since Mom says it’s probably too dicult

for me and that my energy in cars could better be spent elsewhere, like “learning

lines or planning tweets.”)

I would never admit this to Mom, I’ve only told her I’m devastated about

being away from her, but I’m excited too. I feel guilty about that excitement,

considering the fragility of her health, but the feeling is undeniable. I get to be

on my own. I get space to myself. Life to myself.

Grandpa carries Mom into the apartment while I carry the rst few boxes.

“I got you a present, Net,” Mom says as Grandpa sets her down on the

couch. Since Nickelodeon’s paying, Mom insisted on the pre-furnished place.

She pulls a wrapped gift from under her arm.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I even curled the ribbon,” she says as she hands the DVD-sized present to

me. She’s gotten more desperate these past few months. She’s gotten more

desperate and I’ve gotten more angry. I don’t know if my anger is a direct result

of her desperation, but it’s at least a partial result of it. I can’t fucking handle

how desperate she is. The sicker she gets, the cuter she becomes in her

intonation, the more innocent she becomes, the more she pleads with me. It’s

like she’s begging me to not slip away, and I want to scream, YOU’RE THE

ONE SLIPPING AWAY! I could swear she can tell that I want to scream because

she doubles down on the cuteness. Which makes me want to double down on

the scream. But I don’t. I keep it in. And then she looks at me with her big eyes

and I know she doesn’t, she couldn’t, but I almost feel like she’s enjoying this. I

almost feel like she’s enjoying the pain. Like it’s a representation to her of how

much I care.

“Aren’t you gonna open it?” Mom asks.

“Oh. Right.”

I unwrap the present. It’s a DVD of The Sting. Mom loves Robert Redford. I

do too, but she loves him more.

“I gured we could watch it tonight after you unpack.”

“Oh, okay. That’ll be great.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mom says, removing her hat to scratch her bald head. “And

then, um, I was thinking… I don’t have chemo tomorrow, so I could spend the

night. You know, if you want.”

She looks at me, doe-eyed, wringing her hands nervously. I immediately know

what this is. This is not Mom spending the night. This is Mom spending every

night for the foreseeable future. This is Mom moving in. I don’t want her to

spend the night.

“Sure, you can spend the night,” I say.

And I continue to say it every single night for the next three months, until

eventually, she doesn’t even ask it anymore. She just expects it. This is not my

rst-ever solo apartment. This is our apartment. We are roommates.

43.

I’M SITTING ON THE LOG ride at Six Flags, stued into the front seat of the log

with ve iCarly crew members tucked into the seats behind me. My co-worker

Joe, the one seated directly behind me, keeps touching me. At rst I couldn’t tell

if it was an accident since I know he’s in his thirties and has a girlfriend, but now

it’s happened so many times that I’m sure it’s on purpose. I say nothing because

the truth is it feels nice. The truth is I want him to touch me like this.

Our friendship has been irty for the past few months, ever since we were the

rst two in the room before a table read. Joe and I got to talking and he

mentioned his favorite movie, Dazed and Confused, which I went home and

watched that night so that we’d have something to talk about the next day. I

wanted so badly to impress him since he was older and wiser than me. We

swapped Words with Friends usernames and Joe started oering me rides home

from work, where he’d play Daft Punk albums front to back and explain to me

what made their music so genius. I didn’t really like the electronic sound but I

loved that Joe wanted to teach me why I should.

Now he’s touching me. The way he’s touching me. This is another level. Or

so I assume. I’ve never been touched like this before, so I don’t know exactly.

Sure, there was the kiss with Lucas at the Hampton Inn, but since then,

romance has been nonexistent in my life. All I know is that this feels like more

than just a friendly touch. My whole body tingles when his hand lands on my

back. The sensation is exhilarating and overwhelming and scary. In this moment,

I know that one way or another, we’re going to be together.

44.

“MIRANDA AND I WERE GONNA have a sleepover,” I lie as I x Mom and me a

plate of steamed vegetables for “dinner.” I already ate dinner earlier on set and

felt awful about it. I’m too ashamed to tell Mom.

“What am I gonna do alone without you?” Mom asks genuinely, ghting

back tears. “I’ll miss you more than anything. I just love you so much, Net.”

“I’ll miss you too, Mommy. This is just something Miranda and I have been

planning for a while.” I lie twice with this one.

The rst lie is that I’ll miss her. I won’t miss her. I will be happy to have space

from her. She’s been sleeping in my bed every night since we moved into my not-

solo apartment and it’s hard to sleep because she clings to me all night long.

The second lie is that Miranda and I are having a sleepover. We have

sleepovers every couple of weeks, but not tonight. Tonight, Joe is going to stay

with me. But Mom can’t know about Joe because Mom would never approve.

Mom only approves of me hanging out with two types of boys—Mormons and

gays. And even then she wants to supervise the hangout. “Just because a boy

reads Third Nephi…”

I set the plate of steamed vegetables in front of Mom. She pokes at a cube of

squash before forking it into her mouth.

“Yeah, but I need you right now, Net,” Mom says, looking down.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say gently, hoping this will comfort her enough for

us to be able to move on from the topic. There’s a long pause where I wait for

Mom to say something. She looks o and her eyes glaze with an intensity that

seems dissociative. It scares me. Just as I’m about to ask her what’s going on, she

snaps her head toward me, picks the TV remote up o the coee table, and

chucks it at my head. I duck aside to avoid it.

“You’re LYING to me, you LIAR,” Mom says, spitting as her face contorts.

“I’m gonna nd out what’s going on. Mark my words, you FILTHY LITTLE

LYING WHORE.”

Mom’s been harsh with me before, but she’s never spoken to me like this.

“And you better bet your ass I’ll be able to sni the lies on you tomorrow

when you come back,” she says dramatically. It’s obvious to me how much Mom

wanted to be an actress. “Right, Mark?”

Mom whips her head around to my dad, who has been here the whole time

not saying a word, as usual. He nods quickly, scared of her wrath. Fed up, I grab

my backpack and start to head out.

“I’m gonna gure out what you’re up to, you LIAR!” Mom screams. My

nervous system jolts, but I pretend to ignore her. I head out the front door,

letting it slam shut behind me.

Joe picks me up on the corner of Sunset and Vine. The passenger door on his

Ford Taurus is slammed in and jammed shut from a years-old accident, so I crawl

over him in the driver’s seat to sit down in the passenger seat. I’m still shaking

from the interaction with Mom. I look at Joe.

His eyes are glassy. There’s a sweet/rotten smell radiating o him. I’m

disappointed. Tonight was supposed to be our rst night together as an ocial

couple. I wanted it to be romantic and magical and momentous. Instead, Joe’s

sad and drunk and I’m trying hard to resist the disillusionment.

“Did you do it?” I ask anxiously.

“Yes, I broke up with her. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he says, his words

slurring.

“Right… how are you?”

He snort-laughs. “How do you think I am?”

Joe looks down, like he feels bad for snapping. This side of him comes out

when he’s drunk. He starts driving to the Sheraton Universal where I booked us

a room. I’m concerned that he’s driving while drunk, but I fear bringing this up

because I know it will make him more erratic.

By the time Joe gets us there and we get to our room, it’s past midnight. Joe

tries to get the key into the key slot but he’s too wobbly, so I take the key and

shove it in.

“I could’ve done it,” he says.

Joe stumbles in after me and immediately collapses onto the bed. At rst I

think he must be really tired, until he rolls over onto his back and I can see that

there are tears streaming down his cheeks. His chest heaves. He makes that gross

hiccup-y cry sound.

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?”

“What have I done? What have I dooooone!” he sobs. “We were together for

ve years. Five years. We just moved in together, we were gonna get married.”

I lie down next to him and hug him. I’m the big spoon. He rattles on about

his regret and remorse. If I were good enough, he wouldn’t be feeling this way.

He wouldn’t be sad.

“I thought you wanted this,” I say, looking for reassurance.

“You won’t even have sex with me!” he wails.

It’s true. I won’t have sex with him. Even though my family stopped going to

church, there are still a few rules of the religion that for whatever reason I can’t

bring myself to break. One of them being no sex before marriage.

We’ve been seeing each other for the past three months. We keep things

secretive at work, which really causes the tension to build up. Then after work

most nights we get together for a few hours, at his place if his girlfriend’s not

around, at his friend’s place if she is. We’ve made out and rubbed on each other,

but we’ve never had sex and I’ve never even touched his penis.

“I’m sorry, I’m just not ready,” I tell him with a nality that makes me proud.

“Well can you give me a blow job at least?” Joe lifts his head o the bed like a

hopeful, needy puppy.

“Um. I don’t want to do that.”

Joe throws his head back onto the pillow and the tears are replaced with a

sharp anger. “This is ridiculous. My needs aren’t being met.”

“We can make out,” I oer.

“I don’t want to make out. I’m thirty-two years old.”

I feel stupid for suggesting the idea, and embarrassed for not being sexually

advanced enough to meet Joe’s needs. Even though I’m eighteen, I feel like a

child.

“You’re too young for me. This is never gonna work.” Joe starts to get up o

the bed.

“Okay okay, I’ll do it,” I say, immediately disappointed in myself.

Joe lies back down and sprawls out lazily like he’s already over the idea but

might as well go forward with it since we’re both here. He unzips his pants and

pulls out his penis. I look at it for a long time.

“What am I supposed to do? I’ve never done this before.”

“Yeah, it’s not a turn-on when you say shit like that.”

I’ve seen a certain shortness to Joe at times, but this feels dierent. I could

justify his behavior as him being drunker than normal—since I’ve never had

alcohol myself (other than that splash of The Creator’s spiked coee), this is

hard for me to gauge, so I usually just guess how much he’s had by how crooked

he’s walking or how slurred his words are. I could also justify his behavior as him

being overwhelmed with grief from his breakup, but honestly, I don’t even need

to justify it as anything, because I’m so desperate to be with him. He’s so much

older than me and cooler than me, and I’ve never felt this way about anyone

before, so I know we must have something special.

I dive forward. And then I start doing it. Licking it and sucking it and hoping

that’s what I’m supposed to be doing and hoping I’m doing it in a way that’s

pleasurable to him. But I have no idea. I’ve been an actor for a dozen years. I’m

nothing without direction.

“I’m about to nish,” Joe says with a gasp. It sounds like it’s a good thing. I

don’t know what’s about to happen. “Speed it up a little.”

“Thank you,” I say. Direction!

And then suddenly, something that tastes like warm liquid plastic shoots into

my mouth. I spit it out onto the bedspread.

“Something came out! OhmyGod, something just came out!”

“Yeah. It’s cum.” Joe looks at me with dull annoyance.

“What’s cum?”

Joe turns on his side, facing away from me, and clutches a pillow tight to his

chest. He takes a long breath.

“What have I done?” he asks.

45.

“ALOHA.” THE PRETTY FOUR SEASONS Resort Maui employee greets us as she

drapes a oral lei around my neck and a nut lei around Joe’s. Joe’s eyes linger on

the employee for .2 seconds too long. I hate the bitch. I make a mental note to

work on jealousy someday, whenever I get around to it.

We check into the hotel, reiterating multiple times that the reservation is

under my name and not Joe’s. Whether it’s the age dierence between Joe and

me, or just sexism, nobody seems to believe that a trip to the Four Seasons might

be my doing and not his.

Granted, it’s not exactly my doing. It’s Nickelodeon’s doing. This was each

cast member’s fth season wrap gift—four nights and ve days at the Four

Seasons Resort Maui at Wailea for the cast member and one guest.

Of course Joe’s my guest. We’ve been together for a year at this point, and our

relationship has settled into a nice groove. Sure, 50 percent of the time things are

chaotic and tumultuous—Joe’s drunk and I’m hysterical; Joe’s upset that I’m

too possessive and I’m upset that Joe’s gotten back into debt three weeks after I

paid it o for him—but the other 50 percent of the time, things are great.

We watch reruns of Survivor. We have stupid-but-fun inside jokes. We laugh a

lot. We still haven’t had sex, but I’ve gotten better at giving blow jobs.

This relationship looks and feels to me like a huge step up from my parents’

relationship—they had the screaming, tumultuous, ghting part, but none of

the fun. The only problem is that Mom still doesn’t know about our

relationship.

Mom had to move out of my apartment a few months back to be closer to

her oncologist in Orange County now that her appointments are near daily.

Now that we’re not physically in the same space together, Mom calls me ten or

so times a day to keep up-to-date on my life—how big of a role my character has

in any given episode of the show, if I’ve been auditioning for anything else lately,

pitches for why I should get back into country music (I quit my recording

contract after Mom’s cancer took a turn for the worse). I’m worried about how

I’m gonna get through a four-night and ve-day stay at the Four Seasons

without Mom knowing who I’m with.

We decide I’ll tell Mom I’m with Colton, my gay friend she approves of

because there’s no way his penis is entering me, who will then join in three-way

calls to help me out so Mom won’t know I’m lying.

Lying to Mom is dicult for me. Whenever I lie to her to protect my

relationship with Joe, I hang up the phone and weep into Joe’s arms from the

guilt I feel. I tell him I wish I could be honest with her, I wish she could meet

him, I wish I wasn’t scared of her. And Joe runs his hands through my hair and

comforts me.

I feel the wedge between Mom and I growing by the day. With every lie I tell,

I feel myself slipping further away from her. With every pound I gain, every

binge I partake in, I feel myself getting more disconnected from her.

I’m so confused and troubled by this wedge. I’m desperate to feel close with

her, but also desperate for that closeness to be on my terms, not hers. I want her

to know me for who I’m becoming. I want her to allow my growth. I want her to

want me to be me.

But that feels more like a fantasy than a possibility, for now at least. So for

now, I lie.

We’re three days into the vacation and the plan is going smoothly. Each day,

Colton and I three-way-call Mom to tell her about our snorkeling adventures

and o-roading Jeep drives and white-sand beach walks. She laughs along as

Colton gives follow-up details that scream I’m-denitely-not-walking-through-a-

Burbank-Target-right-now.

But in the late afternoon on day three, Joe and I are paddleboarding on the

beach in front of the hotel when he spots it and tells me to duck. I look to see

what he’s talking about and there in the distance near one of the banana-yellow

cabanas, I see a squat, little paparazzo snapping photos of me and Joe.

Shit. Shit shit shit. This is a disaster. We swim to the sand, dump the

paddleboards, wrap some fancy towels around ourselves, and hurry into the

hotel’s back entrance. The paparazzo snaps photos of us the whole time.

By the time we’re in our room, I’m panicking, rattling o the list of ways

Mom might punish me, disown me, or threaten me. Joe unsuccessfully tries to

keep me calm.

Eventually, I’ve been hysterical enough for long enough that I’m completely

emotionally depleted. I fall asleep on the bed by six p.m.

The sight I wake up to the next morning is not the beautiful palm trees out

the window; or the shimmering, turquoise water; or a young, happy newlywed

couple canoodling in a hammock in the distance. It’s my cold, hard iPhone

screen with a glaring notication that terries me.

Thirty-seven missed calls from Mommy, sixteen voicemails, and four missed

emails (we no longer share an account—I recently created my own, thanks to

Joe’s encouragement). I open the top email:

Dear Net,

I am so disappointed in you. You used to be my perfect little angel, but now

you are nothing more than a little SLUT, a FLOOZY, ALL USED UP.

And to think—you wasted it on that hideous OGRE of a man. I saw the

pictures on a website called TMZ—I saw you in Hawaii with him. I saw

you rubbing his disgusting hairy stomach. I KNEW you were lying about

Colton. Add that to the list of things you are—LIAR, CONNIVING,

EVIL. You look pudgier, too. It’s clear you’re EATING YOUR GUILT.

Thinking of you with his ding dong inside of you makes me sick. SICK. I

raised you better than this. What happened to my good little girl? Where

did she go? And who is this MONSTER that has replaced her? You’re an

UGLY MONSTER now. I told your brothers about you and they all said

they disown you just like I do. We want nothing to do with you.

Love,

Mom (or should I say DEB since I am no longer your mother)

P.S. Send money for a new fridge. Ours broke.

I hunch over and bury my head in my hands, breaking into a sob. Joe rubs my

back and assures me that my mother is not okay, but I assure him it’s the

opposite. I’m not okay. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve lost my way. Maybe I’m

an evil monster.

“You can’t let her get to you like this,” he says.

I pick up my phone and urgently start typing TMZ into my search bar. Joe

reminds me we agreed not to look at the pictures—he knows my body image

isn’t good—but I don’t care. I need to see them. I need to see if Mom’s right.

She is. I look awful. My body and face repulse me. I do look pudgy. I no

longer wear one-pieces but I still wear board shorts to hide my ass, which is curvy

and womanly and disgusts me for being those things. Joe tells me my tits look

great in my bikini top but I don’t see it. I think boobs are hideous. I hate them. I

wish I was at-chested and curve-less. I wish there was nothing sexual or

suggestive about my body.

My tears are replaced by my venomous self-loathing. Joe, sensing a shift in

me, nabs the phone out of my hands and tells me it’s going in the hotel safe. I

don’t object.

Over the next two days, my phone stays in the safe and my bathing suit stays

ung over the bathroom door handle, where I last left it. Joe and I try to make

the most of our remaining time in Hawaii by going on hikes and drives and

other activities that don’t involve me removing any clothes in public. By the last

morning of the trip, I’ve been distracted enough and my phone’s been far away

enough that I’ve almost forgotten the paparazzo incident and the vicious email

from Mom.

But then Joe and I are packing up our bags and out of the corner of my eye, I

see him discreetly entering the code on the safe. He pulls my phone out and goes

to tuck it into his pocket. I ask to see it rst. He reminds me this is a bad idea and

that it won’t be anything but harmful for me if I look at it, but I can’t not. I

want to see it. I need to see it.

As soon as the phone’s in my hands, I know I’ve made a mistake, but it’s too

late now. Forty-ve missed calls from Mom. Twenty-two unread emails from

her. I start reading through the messages frenetically, and each one gets more

aggressive than the last—she calls me a dimwit, loser, scumbag, devil child. Joe

says we’re running late for the airport. I don’t care.

I read another email. This one’s titled “Letter To Your Fans.” I open it up and

nd a scathing note attached, a note that Mom tells me she’s posted to an online

Jennette McCurdy fan club in an attempt to get my fans to ee from me. She

says that she’s gonna steal all my fans, that she deserves them more than I do,

that she swears to God she’s gonna sign up for Vine and they’re all gonna love

her comedy videos.

I wonder if Mom’s blung, so I check the fan club she referenced. No blu.

There’s Mom’s message right on the front page of the fan club. I almost can’t

believe it.

I go back to my email and another new message from Mom has popped up. I

open it:

YOU caused my cancer to come back. I hope you’re happy knowing this. YOU

have to live with this fact. YOU gave me cancer.

I draft a response to her, asking if we can just sit down and talk this out face-

to-face. I’m sure that if she’ll just grant me that, I can explain myself enough to

earn her approval. I’m desperate, pleading.

My dear Nonny Mommy—

Please can we at least just meet up in person to talk about this? Please. Just

me and you. We can sit down and talk this out. I can answer any questions

you have. Please Mommy. I hate letting you down. I would do anything to

not disappoint you. I feel conﬁdent that if you knew the whole situation you

wouldn’t think these things about me. I love you so much. I want to be close to

you again. I miss you.

Love, Nettie

I click my phone o and tuck it into Joe’s pocket. He asks what she said. I tell

him nothing. I’m numb. Catatonic. The entire plane ride home, I don’t say a

word.

Over the past few years, Mom and I have grown apart in a way that I never

thought was possible. Between fame and Joe, the strain between me and Mom

has gotten nearly intolerable. Plus there’s the strain of her cancer. Maybe all of

this is actually just about the strain of her cancer.

Why can’t she admit that she’s dying? Why can’t I admit that she’s dying? I

hate her for caring so much about fame and she hates me for caring so much

about Joe. There seems to be more hate than love for each other right now but

maybe we’re both just scared. Maybe we’re just letting this wedge between us

grow because deep down we both know that soon enough this wedge will be out

of our control.

The plane lands. While we’re circling the tarmac, I open my email draft to

Mom. I hit send. Moments later, my phone pings with a response from Mom:

Sure, we can meet up. P.S. Reminder to send fridge money. Our yogurt has

soured.

46.

“JENNETTE? WILL YOU SING ‘WIND Beneath My Wings’ at my funeral?”

Mom and I are sitting at the Panda Express on Cahuenga Boulevard for

Mom’s birthday dinner. Mom’s chewing steamed broccoli and I’m chewing

steamed cabbage and we’re both going through the motions of our relationship

because that’s what we do nowadays.

This started the rst time we got together after the Hawaii trip. Dad drove

her to my place and lifted her up out of her wheelchair and set her down on the

couch. While we waited for our tea to steep, I waited for her to bring up the Joe

situation since I thought that’s why we were meeting up in the rst place—to

talk about it. But she never brought it up. She just asked me trivial questions

about work, and I asked her trivial questions about the last episode of NCIS.

Mom’s big into Mark Harmon.

When’s she gonna bring it up? I wondered. And I kept wondering until,

before I knew it, our two hours together were over and Dad came back to pick

her up and take her home.

By the time we’re here at the Panda Express on Cahuenga Boulevard, this way

of communicating—polite small talk with an undercurrent of pain and

resentment—has been our new reality for several months, enough time that it’s

not new anymore. That’s why it shocks me that Mom has asked me to sing

“Wind Beneath My Wings” at her funeral.

Mom’s cancer falls under the category of things that we pretend don’t exist

because they’re uncomfortable to talk about. Mom asking this question is a

breach of our unspoken rule. I don’t know how to process this, or how to

proceed.

“Um…”

“You’ve gotta do it with emotion, though. You’ve gotta believe your words. It

won’t work if you’re only giving fty percent.”

I haven’t even agreed to sing it yet and Mom’s already giving me performance

notes. “Uhhh…”

“Lemme hear you try it.”

“Mom, we’re in Panda Express, I’m not gonna—”

“Just try it.”

“ ‘It must have been cold there in my shadooooow…’ ” Involuntarily, my singing

voice starts pouring out of my mouth. My body is programmed to Mom-on-

Demand. A nearby employee watches me out of the corner of her eye as she

mops.

“ ‘To never have—’ ”

“More emotion, more sadness. Feel it, Angel.”

“ ‘To never have sunlight on your faaace…’ ” A little heavy on the vibrato, but

Mom’s into that sort of thing.

“Good, stop. I don’t wanna burn you out. Your performance peaks early. So

are you gonna do it?”

I feel obligated. It’s Mom’s dying wish. The only problem is I don’t think I

have the range to sing it. I’m okay in the verses where I can use my lower register.

But once the song hits that soaring chorus, it’s way out of my range.

Back at my place, Mom asks me to pull the song up on YouTube so I can

practice along and give her a taste of what the nal performance will be.

“I thought you didn’t want to burn me out.”

“Well, we’re practicing so far ahead—hopefully—that it won’t matter.”

Mom’s pointed choice of words—or word, rather—hits me hard. Hopefully. I

feel furious with her, then immediately guilty for feeling furious. I must be a

terrible person to be able to feel fury at my mother while she’s slowly dying.

I throw the energy of my guilt into meeting Mom’s wish. Maybe that’ll clear

my conscience. I pull up the song on YouTube, and another tab with the lyrics.

And then I begin. The verse is, as expected, ne. But once I get to the “ ‘Did you

ever’ ” part… it’s conrmed. Out of my range.

“Well, it’s because you didn’t do any vocal warm-ups,” Mom assures me. “Do

some vocal warm-ups and try again.”

I do ten minutes of mee-may-moos before trying again. But then I try again

and it’s the same issue. I try one more time, just to make sure.

“It’s out of my range,” I nally admit.

“Don’t say that,” Mom says sharply.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ll get there. I know you’ll get there. You’ve got plenty of time to practice

—hopefully.”

I don’t want to practice the song my dying mother has instructed me to sing

at her funeral. I don’t want to think about my mother’s funeral. I want to go

back to ignoring the things that make us uncomfortable to talk about. As much

as I thought I hated it, I want to go back to pretending.

“Why don’t you just try it a couple more times tonight, sweetheart?” Mom

urges as she removes her Ugg hat to scratch her bald head. On the surface, it

seems like such a sad gesture, but I could swear she’s doing this manipulatively.

I click back to the beginning of the song. The twinkly 1980s intro starts. I try

again.

47.

“YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY,” I tell Grandpa over speakerphone as I watch

him from my window.

“Woops.”

He pulls a 180 with Mom’s wheelchair and starts heading in the opposite

direction. I’m looking down at them from the courtyard-facing window of my

apartment. I chose this apartment for its view, or rather, for what’s not its view.

The most desired units in the complex are the ones facing Sunset Boulevard,

looking right out onto the bustling city. But there was no way I would’ve gone

for one of those, because those complexes face Nickelodeon Studios, and

plastered on the side of Nickelodeon Studios is a bright purple-and-yellow

billboard for iCarly, complete with my fake smile and cheesy airbrushed hairdo.

There was no way I was waking up every morning to face myself.

After a few wrong turns and elevator button pushes, Grandpa and Mom

nally make it up to my unit. We chitchat for a few minutes over tea before

heading back down to the parking structure so Grandpa can drive us to lunch.

“Where do you wanna go?” I ask. Please don’t say it, please don’t say it, please

don’t—

“Wendy’s?” Mom suggests innocently.

“Sure,” I say through a tight smile. There’s nothing inherently wrong with

Wendy’s. In fact, I’d go so far as to say there are several things inherently right

with it. We’ve all tried the Frosty.

My tenseness isn’t coming from Wendy’s, it’s coming from Mom’s reasoning

for suggesting Wendy’s. She knows I have money and could take her anywhere

she’d like, and yet she chooses Wendy’s not because she likes it, but because she

can go and tell her friends or fellow churchgoers how humble she is, how down-

to-earth, that even on a day as special as her birthday, all she did was eat a side

salad from a fast food restaurant.

This thing in Mom drives me nuts. This thing where she yearns to be pitied.

She’s got stage four cancer, she’s already plenty pitied. She doesn’t need to throw

Wendy’s on top of it.

Grandpa pulls out of the structure and gets to the rst stoplight. The

stoplight that sits directly in front of the giant, terrifying iCarly poster. I start

organizing his messy back seat pockets out of anxiety. I pull out papers,

crumpled-up receipts, dirtied napkins, and a copy of Sean Hannity’s

Conservative Victory. Grandpa looks over his shoulder to see what I’m doing.

“You wanna borrow that? I’m done with it. Excellent read. Very excellent

read.” He raps on his dashboard as punctuation.

“Maybe.” (No.)

“There she is!” Mom says as she snaps a photo of the giant poster with her

disposable Kodak camera. She has at least a hundred photos of that same

billboard.

As she takes the picture, the camera drops out of her hand and to the oor. I

stretch down to pick it up, and by the time I sit upright with it, Mom’s

convulsing. Her hands are clenched into tight little balls and her face is

contorted so that one eye is squinted shut and her mouth is scrunched up

entirely to one side. Her convulsing looks like the rocking of somebody in a

mental hospital. I’m horried.

I tell Grandpa something’s wrong. He takes the Lord’s name in vain. Mom

says nothing because she can’t. Grandpa looks both ways to make sure the coast

is clear, then cuts across the street, going through the red light and into the

Nickelodeon Studios parking lot. Carl, the friendly security guard, recognizes

him since Grandpa visits me on set often. Grandpa tells Carl to call 9-1-1.

By this point, Mom is frothing at the mouth. I’m sure she’s dying. Grandpa

tells me to get her to lie down. I unbuckle her seat belt and pull her onto my lap.

This is the most terrifying moment of my life.

The ambulance arrives impressively fast. They yank Mom onto a stretcher

and buckle her in. She’s still convulsing. They wheel her into the ambulance.

One of the EMTs recognizes me, so he lets me ride with Mom. It’s one of the

rare times I’m grateful to be recognized.

I grip Mom’s hand and squeeze it. I tell her everything’s gonna be okay even

though I’m sure it’s not. The siren starts blaring from the ambulance. It sounds

warped when you hear it from inside the vehicle that’s making it. The driver

pulls a right out of the parking lot. As I’m squeezing my dying mother’s hand

and watching froth spill out of her mouth, we pass the poster again. I see my

dead-eyed grin and my stupid fucking outdated hairstyle. My life is mocking me.

48.

IT’S THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS Eve. Mom’s been in the ICU for a week,

unresponsive. She had a seizure as a result of her brain tumor, which is

apparently a “pretty regular occurrence,” the doctor tells us, as if the regularity

makes it any less horric.

Marcus, Dustin, Scottie, and I sit in a row in the waiting room while

Grandma and Grandpa visit with her in the ICU. We’re all quiet.

Finally, I oer to go pick up some Burger King for all of us because I’m

desperate for a distraction. And food is the perfect distraction. None of the boys

want anything. They “can’t eat” right now, they tell me. I envy them. I envy that

their sadness and stress translate to a lack of hunger.

I go to the Burger King across the street. I order a Whopper and fries and a

Coke Icee, and some tacos and chicken sticks to go with it. The ordering and the

eating happen in rapid succession and both feel out of my control. Afterward,

my stomach feels distended.

I consider making myself throw up. I’ve heard about this before, but never

actually tried it. Now seems like as good a moment as ever to try. I shove my

Burger King bag into an overstued trash can and head back to the hospital. I

rush through the entrance doors, cut through the lobby, and hop on the

elevator, excited about my new plan. I get o the elevator at the ICU. My

brothers are no longer in the waiting room. They must be visiting Mom. I head

to the two-stall bathroom and make sure no one else is in there, then I kneel on

the cold, hard, tiled hospital oor and shove my ngers down my throat. Ow. I

poke the back of my throat. It hurts, but nothing comes out. I try again.

Nothing. One more time. Still nothing.

Fuck this. I give up. I wash my hands. I’m a failure at not eating and I’m a

failure at getting rid of the food I do eat.

I hurry down the hallway and push open the heavy door that leads to Mom’s

ICU room. Marcus, Dustin, and Scottie are standing around her. You can barely

make out the shape of her little body underneath the hospital sheets and

blankets.

“She’s awake,” Dustin tells me.

I rush over to her bedside and take her hand in mine. I love the way her hands

feel. They’re small and her ngers are short. Her skin is shiny and warm.

“Net,” she says as she turns her head feebly to look at me. My eyes well with

tears. Maybe she’s gonna be okay after all. I can’t believe it. I’m elated.

“The boys said you stopped at Burger King. You don’t need to be eating that

stu. Lotta grams of fat in a Whopper.”

I beam. A tear trickles down my cheek. Mom’s gonna live. For now, she’s

gonna live.

“I know, Mama. I know. I did get it without mayo…”

She sighs. “Still.”

49.

MIRANDA’S CRYING. I’M CRYING. WE’RE both crying. We can’t stop crying. For

me, it’s not that iCarly’s ending. It’s not that today is our last day ever taping

iCarly. That I’m ne with, even excited about, denitely ready for. Even though

I’m wary of starting my spin-o, I’m glad to at least be saying goodbye to this

project that makes me feel like I’m living every day in the Groundhog Day movie,

doing the same thing over and over again.

The reason I’m crying is that I don’t know what will become of my

friendship with Miranda. We’ve gotten so close. Like sisters, but without the

passive-aggression and weird tensions. I have my judgments around female

friendships being catty and petty and backstabby, but that couldn’t be further

from the truth with Miranda.

With Miranda, it’s always been so easy. Our friendship is pure.

An AD hands me and Miranda a tissue. We blow our noses hideously and get

back on our marks to do one last take of the nal scene we’re shooting together.

The sadness takes both of us over. We hold each other and cry.

This feeling of sadness and ending is really common on sets. You get to know

the people around you so intimately because you’re around them more than

you’re around your family. For a period of time. And then you aren’t anymore.

And little by little, you realize you start talking less and less to the people you

thought you were so intimate with. Until you don’t talk to them at all anymore.

And it makes you wonder if you were ever really intimate with them in the rst

place or if it was all just a facade. If the connections were as temporary as the sets

they were made on.

I don’t like knowing people in the context of things. Oh, that’s the person I

work out with. That’s the person I’m in a book club with. That’s the person I did

that show with. Because once the context ends, so does the friendship.

I yearn to know the people I love deeply and intimately—without context,

without boxes—and I yearn for them to know me that way, too. And as much as

I think I know Miranda deeply and intimately, I don’t like that I know her

through the context of iCarly, because iCarly is ending, and I don’t want our

friendship to end with it.

50.

“ARE YOU SURE?”

“I’m positive.”

“Now’s not the time to throw us away. Now’s when you need us most.”

“I don’t think so. I think… if I go through these next few months with you,

I’ll get too attached.”

“Why don’t you want to be attached? Isn’t being attached to someone a good

thing? Isn’t that what love is?”

“I’m just worried about being attached while my mom’s, you know…” I can’t

say it out loud. The realer it becomes, the more I can’t say it out loud. Doctors

have been saying that Mom’s health is rapidly declining for a while, long enough

for me to question their use of the word “rapidly.” Regardless, it’s declining.

She’s wheelchair bound. She’s weaker than I’ve ever seen her. The cancer has

spread to just about everywhere. The end is near. I bite my nail.

“Like, since I’m more attached to her than anyone, I worry all that

attachment toward her will just pile onto whoever I’m with,” I say.

“Well, that’s ne with me. I want the pile. Pile it on.”

Not the response I was hoping for. I backpedal.

“Maybe I misspoke. I just think it’s a distraction from what I need to be

focusing on. Family.”

“I’m a distraction?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

I scratch my head. I want out of this moment, this moment in Tony’s Darts

Away—Joe’s favorite vegan joint in Burbank.

“Look, if you don’t love me anymore, you can just say it. I can take it,” he

says, his voice cracking on the last part, betraying his words.

Just then his vegan sausage and beer come. The timing of food at restaurants

is always impeccably in line with the phrase you’d least like someone to overhear.

You almost have to appreciate it, it’s like the waiters work on this.

“I do love you.”

“Then why are you breaking up with me?” Joe takes a big bite of his sausage.

An obnoxiously big bite. He’s got vegan mayonnaise smeared all over his lip. It’s

disgusting.

Maybe this is why. Maybe it’s not about the Mom stu at all. Maybe I’m just

over it. His chewing bothers me most of the time. The baby voice he overuses

makes me cringe. His jokes aren’t funny. He lacks ambition. He drinks too

much. He has anger issues. Our age gap no longer feels cool to me and instead

feels a little embarrassing for both of us.

I wonder what laundry list of aws he’s racked up about me at this point.

What could he say? I’m selsh. I’m possessive. I’m not social enough. I don’t like

his friends. I’m too judgmental. I don’t give him enough attention.

Joe’s still chewing the same bite. He’s been chewing this same bite for a

goddamned minute. Why not just take smaller bites? There’s an easy solve to

this, Joe.

“Did you hear me?” he asks. “If you still love me, why are you breaking up

with me?”

Something switches in me in this vegan mayonnaise–lled moment. All my

patience is gone. I’m in a vegan dive bar, smelling beer I don’t care to drink with

basketball and football games I don’t care to watch blaring from the excessive

amount of TVs around me. I’m sitting on a bar stool with uneven legs opposite a

man I no longer love. I am numb. I am done.

“Look, I just am.”

51.

MIRANDA’S DRIVING AND I’M SITTING shotgun in her Porsche Cayenne, where

we spend 50 percent of our time together these days. And we spend a lot of time

together these days. There was no need to worry about context; our friendship

has gotten stronger since iCarly ended.

We hang out three or four times a week. Usually one of the nights is a

sleepover, like last night. Typically the sleepover is at Miranda’s place, but last

night we stayed at the St. Regis Laguna Beach because our series wrap gift was a

night there.

The sleepover might as well have been at Miranda’s place because we didn’t

do anything that made our sleepover any more St. Regis-y than our other ones.

We sat in the room and watched some movie about the porn industry starring

Amanda Seyfried, and decided that, even though the movie was mediocre and

we don’t know how to pronounce her last name, Amanda Seyfried is a walking

angel of beauty. We talked about how sad and miserable we are and how we feel

guilty about it because we have so much to be grateful for. We watched Dance

Moms until we fell asleep—between Abby Lee Miller’s abusive tactics and the

intensity of the parents, we relate deeply.

We left the hotel not long ago. Miranda makes her way toward the nearest

freeway on-ramp. We’re complain-laughing about something while Katy Perry’s

“Roar” plays in the background (we once saw the Rolling Stones together, but

who are we kidding, we’re twenty-one-year-old females and Katy Perry does

much more for us than Mick Jagger). My phone rings. Mommy.

“Hello?”

“Net! Net! Help me!”

“Whoa whoa, slow down, what’s the matter?”

“Help! I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

“They’re taking me back for my surgery.”

Mom’s been set to have this surgery for a while. The breast implant from her

mastectomy recently started leaking, so the doctor needs to go in there, clean up

the leakage, and repair the implant—supposedly a fairly easy procedure.

“It’s gonna be ne. It’s just a minor surgery.”

“Something’s not right, Net. Something’s not right.”

I hear a nurse in the background. “Ma’am, no phones are allowed here.”

“Please, Net! Do something!”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know! I need you!”

She sounds panic-stricken. There’s a trembling to her voice that I’ve never

heard before. It terries me. Dad takes the phone.

“Hey, Jennette?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s just emotional right now. She’s on the hospital bed, they’re rolling her

to the room for her surgery now. I’m with her. Everything’s ne.”

“Should I come?”

Mom shouts “Yes!” Dad says “No.”

I ask again. “Should I come?”

“No, it’s ne,” Dad says. “They’d be done by the time you got here. It’s

gonna be quick—totally harmless. The doctors are great. I’ll call you afterward.”

Cool. I turn up “Roar.” Miranda keeps driving.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing.”

She doesn’t press. We drive in silence for a few minutes and then we start

talking again, about whatever. Something’s o, I can feel it in my gut. We stop

for gas, then keep driving. My phone rings again. Dad.

“How’d it go?”

“Hey. Mom’s not okay.”

“What?”

“Apparently her body couldn’t withstand the surgery.”

“Wait, what? I thought it was gonna be harmless—”

“She’s in a coma.”

“But you said the doctors were great—”

“She’s not doing well. You need to get to the hospital right away.”

I hang up the phone, numb. I tell Miranda what’s happened. She oers to

drive me to the hospital. I say okay. I stare out the window. Miranda stops at a

red light.

“It’s Sigh-Fred,” Miranda says plainly. “I looked it up.”

52.

“MOMMY. DID YOU HEAR ME? I said I’m so skinny right now. I’m nally down to

eighty-nine pounds.”

I uncross my legs. I lean forward, desperate.

“Eighty-nine!”

I’m grateful that since Mom’s been in a coma I’ve stopped binging. In fact,

I’ve eaten almost nothing. I’ve been losing weight rapidly.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

As the hospital machines keep beeping, I slowly settle into the fact that my

big news isn’t gonna wake Mom up. I wipe the tears from my eyes just as the

boys come back up from the cafeteria. We don’t say anything to one another. We

don’t need to. They sit around Mom’s body and we all just stare at her.

I glance at the clock. It’s two thirty, two hours since we were told Mom has

less than forty-eight to live. I wonder how much time she has left. Where her

lifetime falls within those forty-eight hours. Does she have forty-four hours left?

Ten? Two? Every moment feels so slow and so heavy. I’m trying to hold on to

each moment but they just keep ticking on. I’ve never felt worse.

“Cam ooda dieeeee.”

All of us whip our heads to Mom. What the fuck. She spoke. She feebly,

barely, inaudibly spoke, but still, she spoke.

“Cam oooooda dieeeeeee,” she says again.

Marcus leans forward. “No, Mom, don’t say that. You’re not gonna die.”

“CAM OODA DIE,” she says with a hint of anger. There she is.

Dustin snaps his ngers. “Canada Dry!”

Mom’s eyes widen with conrmation. We all crack up around her, harder

than we would have if she wasn’t dying. There’s something about these life-or-

death moments that just beg for some levity. They’re too dicult otherwise. Too

excruciating.

Marcus runs to the hallway to get a Canada Dry from a vending machine. He

comes back, pops it open, and tilts it to Mom’s mouth. We all share a smile. This

is good, right? This is a good sign. Mom’s speaking some version of words and

slurping down Canada Dry. This means she’s gonna be okay. This means she’s

gonna make it. Right?

I’m desperate, I know. I’m clinging, I know. But I’ll cling if I have to. I can’t

let her go.

Mom was moved out of the ICU wing a week and a half ago and has been in a

regular wing since. So much for forty-eight hours. Take that, Dr. Wiessman.

That’s what I think sometimes. Until he assures me and the boys—which he

does often—that this does not mean she will have some sort of a miraculous

recovery. He doesn’t want us to get our hopes up. As much as I wish I could

argue with him, I know I can’t. I see it. She shits in a bag and breathes from a

machine. This isn’t gonna turn around.

For the rst week of her hospitalization, the boys and I stayed at a hotel

nearby while we waited for her to die. But then she didn’t. So after a week, we

checked out of the hotel. Life resumed back to normal, or as normal as it could

be. Dustin stopped taking sick days and went back to work. Marcus ew home

to Jersey. Grandpa and Dad alternated work shifts so someone could be with

Mom most nights, while Scott stayed with her during the days. I visited each day

after I got o work on my spin-o, which had started taping. I’d go from

slinging a buttersock and shouting my cheesy lines on the brightly colored,

overlit Sam & Cat soundstage to sitting in a hospital bedside chair with

outdated upholstery, surrounded by the smell of sanitization and the feel of

death.

Today is no dierent. I just nished shooting a scene where I confront some

mean school bullies and slap somebody with a ham sandwich. And now I’m

here. Watching a nurse change my mother’s shit bag while she side-eyes me. I

know what’s coming, and it is pure hell.

“Are you…?” the nurse asks. If this hadn’t already happened twenty-ve times

in this hospital, I’d be shocked someone had the audacity to ask me if I’m Sam

Puckett while I’m sitting across from my dying mother.

I don’t respond. I narrow my eyes and hope the nurse recognizes how

inappropriate it is that she’s asking this right now. She doesn’t.

“You look like Samantha Puckett. Sam. Are you her?”

I sit in this feeling of utter hopelessness toward the state of humanity while

the nurse disposes of my mother’s feces.

“No,” I say. Rudely.

“You look just like her. Spitting image. Do you mind if I take a picture so I

can show my niece? She’s not gonna believe how much you look like her.”

I lean back in the chair. It squeaks. “No. I’m not taking a picture.”

I look at Mom. It’s wild how much cancer has changed her shape. She used to

have curves, all four foot eleven of her. She had thighs, a bit of an ass, and boobs

too (well, boob, if you’re only counting real ones, the other one was the implant

post-mastectomy). She had a small waist and narrow shoulders. She had

shapeliness. Now her stomach is distended, her boobs have shriveled, her legs are

twigs. Her arms look longer in an almost monkey-like way—they just dangle at

her sides. She looks less human to me.

“Iluyooo!” Mom lobs into the abyss. This is one of the only phrases she has

left in her. She has so many brain tumors that are so big in size that she’s all but

brain-dead. And yet she still remembers how to sort-of say “I love you.” It makes

my heart physically hurt.

“Iluyoo!” she says again, her head bobbing around and no connection behind

her eyes. I bite my lip ’til it bleeds.

I try looking at Mom while I’m here at the hospital with her—to savor her, to

remember her. But at the same time, I don’t want to remember her like this. So

every time I look at her, within moments, I look away again. Sometimes I’ll force

myself to grab her hands and tell her I love her and that I’m here for her, but

most of the time I’m not strong enough to do that. So instead, I sit in the chair

in the corner, and I look at her occasionally, but otherwise I look out the

window and try not to break down.

My phone pings with a text from Colton. He’s asking if I want to get away

for a few days, take a road trip to San Francisco. He knows I’m struggling and

thinks this will help take my mind o things. I check in with Grandpa that

Mom’s at a “stable” place for at least the next few days, and Grandpa says she is.

I take one quick look at Mom while she spews some gibberish. I can’t get out

of this hospital fast enough. I get up, kiss her on the forehead, and leave.

53.

I’M SITTING SHOTGUN IN COLTON’S Dodge Charger. He’s driving. We’re

reminiscing about the rst time we met, on a movie shoot in Utah nearly ten

years ago. We’re fteen miles from San Francisco when he suggests we pick up a

little alcohol to drink back at the hotel. I’ve never had alcohol before, more so

because I was scared of it after seeing Joe’s relationship with it than because I’m

holding on to any Mormon values or anything.

But if there’s anyone I’d try drinking with, it’s Colton. He’s warm and

energetic and has a way of making everyone around him feel accepted. Plus he’s

gay, so I don’t have to worry about any sexual tension.

We crack open the bottle the second we get to our hotel room and pour a

shot’s worth each into the two plastic courtesy cups from the bathroom. We

open a packet of Sour Patch Kids so we can suck on them as soon as we take our

shots.

“You ready?” Colton asks excitedly. I nod. He counts us in. “One, two,

three.”

We plug our noses, swallow our drinks, and suck on the Sour Patch Kids.

“I don’t feel anything,” I say, confused.

Colton agrees, so we take another shot.

“Okay, still not much, but now I feel, like, a slight dizziness.”

Colton agrees, so we take another shot.

“Ooh, I think I’m starting to feel it.”

Colton agrees, so we take one more, just in case.

Before we can determine how the fourth shot feels, we’ve jumped on the

beds, played hide-and-seek in the hotel hallway, and snuck into the pool even

though it’s closed. We’ve planned a short lm we’re gonna make together where

we’re handcued to each other for a week. We’ve tried to nd handcus.

Luckily, we haven’t.

The next morning, I wake up energized, mascara smudged all under my eyes

like a raccoon, still wearing yesterday’s outt.

“That was one of the best nights of my life,” I declare.

Colton agrees, and we debate taking another shot. Ultimately, we decide we’ll

wait until nighttime so we have something to look forward to.

And my God am I looking forward to it. I can’t believe I’ve waited so long to

get drunk. It’s an incredible, one-of-a-kind feeling. When I’m drunk, all of my

worries disappear—hating my body, the shame I feel about my eating habits,

coping with my dying mother, starring in a show I’m humiliated to be a part of

—it all just goes away. When I’m drunk, I’m less anxious, less inhibited, less

worried about what Mom would want or think of me—in fact, when I’m drunk,

the voice of Mom judging me evaporates completely. I can’t wait for tonight.

54.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

I jolt awake, startled by the noise. Ow. My head’s throbbing. I rub my

temples. This must be what it feels like to be hungover. I’ve only heard about

what it feels like to be hungover, but I’ve never actually felt it for myself, despite

the fact that I’ve gotten drunk almost every night for the past three weeks since

having my rst sip of Tennessee Honey Jack with Colton in San Francisco. Up

until this point, every time I’ve gotten drunk, I’ve been able to wake up the next

morning unscathed, regardless of what and how much I drank. But today’s

dierent, for whatever reason. Was it the tequila? The whiskey? The rum? The

wine? Mixing all four? Who knows.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

Shit. What time is it? I check my phone: 8:05 a.m. Fuck. I forgot to set my

alarm. I was supposed to leave for a ight ve minutes ago. This must be the

driver that Nickelodeon sent.

“I’m coming!” I shout, trying but failing to put on my best I-denitely-did-

not-just-wake-up voice.

I yank open the front door. The suit-and-tie-clad driver is nowhere to be

found. Instead it’s Billy—my jovial contractor sucking on a cough drop—and

his three crew members.

“He-hey!” Billy says cheerily as he bounds in, not waiting for an invitation.

His guys trail behind.

I totally forgot Billy was coming today. I shouldn’t have forgotten, being that

he comes almost every day.

I bought a house three months ago. Everyone was telling me it would be a

good investment. Plus the idea was exciting to me. My rst home. It would be

free of must and mold and hoarding. It would represent how far I’ve come.

I got a beautiful three-story hillside house that was turnkey so I could move

in immediately and not worry about having to do any remodeling. I even bought

the display furniture so that I wouldn’t have to think about decorating the place.

My vision for this house was to not have any—to let someone else have the vision

and let myself enjoy it.

Within weeks of moving in, I learned the entire infrastructure needed to be

dug out and replaced. A pipe broke and the shower leaked onto the living room

display furniture, ruining all of it. The kitchen sink and one of the toilets

clogged. The deck chipped and a stair broke. This thing was not turnkey. This

thing looked good on the surface, but underneath it was falling apart.

As Billy and his guys barrel up the stairs, I step onto my porch and crane my

neck over the ledge to see if the driver’s down below. He is. Of course he fucking

is. And not only is he, but he is with his arms crossed and his gloves on and his

car running and his trunk popped. Drivers’ level of preparation and timeliness

has always been irritating to me.

“I’ll just be a few minutes!” I shout down to him.

“All right, ma’am! But we really should leave any min—!”

I slam the door in the middle of his sentence. I’m becoming an angry person

with no tolerance for anyone. I’m aware of this shift and yet have no desire to

change it. If anything, I want it. It’s armor. It’s easier to be angry than to feel the

pain underneath it.

I rush upstairs, drag a suitcase out of my closet, and open it up on my

hardwood oor. The guys start banging and hammering in the bathroom to

work on the shower while I crouch down and haphazardly stu socks,

underwear, pajamas, jeans, and shirts into my suitcase.

I hold up a jacket, debating whether or not I’ll need it for this trip. Is it cold

right now in New York? I toss the jacket aside and opt for a hoodie instead. I

shove it in my bag, shut the lid, and sit on it to try and get the zipper up. Shit. I

forgot toiletries.

I’m frantically jumping up to grab each respective item as it pops into my

mind. It’s chaos. I rummage through my bathroom cupboard and grab some

makeup items, a travel toothbrush, a mini oss, and mouthwash. I toss them in

the front ap of my suitcase when my phone starts buzzing. I swipe it open.

“Yeah, Dad?”

Hammer-hammer-hammer. Drill-drill-drill.

“You should get down here.”

“Really?”

Hammer-hammer-hammer. Drill-drill-drill.

“Yeah…”

I throw my body onto my suitcase again. Why won’t this thing shut? I yank

the zipper harder. The part of it I yanked on breaks o in my hand. I chuck it.

“Are you sure? Because I’m supposed to leave for a ight right now, the car’s

downstairs waiting for me.”

I hear Dad take a breath on the other end of the phone. He sounds stressed.

“Where you going?”

“New York, remember?”

“For what?”

Drill-drill- LOUDEST DRILL I’VE EVER FUCKING HEARD-drill.

“The Nickelodeon Worldwide Day of—” I stop, realizing how ridiculous this

sentence sounds. “I don’t know; some thing I’m supposed to be hosting. So I

really shouldn’t go?”

“They say it’ll happen today.”

I freeze, shocked for a beat, but not for long. I’ve experienced this moment

many times before. Somebody says Mom’s gonna die, and then she doesn’t. I go

back to tugging on the zipper.

“Yeah, but…” I start, knowing Dad will know what I mean.

“But what?”

Never mind. I always forget Dad never knows what I mean.

“But people have said this so many times before. If this is just another false

alarm, I really shouldn’t head down. Nickelodeon’s gonna be pissed if I bail on

this thing.”

A beat. Knocking starts up again at my front door. The driver’s probably

checking in on me. Dad swallows.

“You really need to come down.”

“Fine.”

I hang up just as I nally get the zipper shut. I’m sweating by this point. I

stand up, cross over to my bed and sit at the foot of it for just a moment to try

and collect myself before heading down to see my mom for possibly the last time

I ever will. I’m trying to process this intense reality, but I’m really struggling to

because hammer-hammer-hammer. Drill-drill-drill. Knock-knock-knock.

55.

I’M SITTING ON THE COUCH looking at Mom as she lies in the hospital bed that’s

been set up for her here in the living room of the ole Garbage Grove hoarder

house. The couch was removed to make enough space for it. Mom’s been in

hospice care for the past three weeks, so this is not an unusual sight, though she’s

typically sitting up instead of lying down like she is now, and her breath is

shallower than I’ve ever heard it.

Scottie and Dustin sit nearby. All of us are silent, the eect of years of

emotional exhaustion. I’m surprised none of us are crying, but it’s like we have

no tears left. We’ve been through at least a dozen dress rehearsals of our mother’s

death. We remember the VHS tape.

My phone pings with a text. Nickelodeon is reaching out to say no worries at

all on me missing the Worldwide Day of Whatever. I send a thank-you text back.

Another text comes through, this one from the guy I’m currently stringing

along. Current Guy and I “met” via Twitter. We arranged to meet up in person.

I invited some friends so I wouldn’t get murdered. Once I knew he was safe to be

around, we went to fancy dinners and laser tag and minigolf. We even went to

Disneyland together to watch the reworks. (I splurged on a VIP guide so we

wouldn’t stop any parades and piss o Goofy.)

Current Guy is wonderfully sweet and thoughtful and romantic. But I don’t

love him. Maybe it’s because I don’t have space in my heart to love anyone right

now while Mom’s dying, or maybe that’s me trying to blame a genuine lack of

connection on grief. Grief is a great scapegoat. Regardless, I’m discovering just

how powerful of a tool it is to not love someone.

Loving someone is vulnerable. It’s sensitive. It’s tender. And I get lost in

them. If I love someone, I start to disappear. It’s so much easier to just do googly

eyes and fond memories and inside jokes for a few months, run the second things

start to get real, then repeat the cycle with someone new.

That’s where I’m at right now with Current Guy. The distraction has been

nice, but I’m ready for a replacement.

I whip out my phone to check the text from him.

What are you up too?

I’m no stickler on spelling but Jesus Christ get your “tos” right. That’s it. I’m

ready to end things. I draft a text.

Hey—I’m really sorry but I just can’t do this right now. My mom’s gonna

die and I really need some time to just be alone. I hope you can understand.

Send. Done. Simple as that. I look back up at my dying mother. A text pings.

Don’t say that, boo. Your mom’s not gonna die.

He ignores the rest of my message. I roll my eyes. I’ve told him twelve times

that Mom’s dying of cancer but he acts like she has a sprained ankle. He has no

concept of loss. I feel like the world is divided into two types of people: people

who know loss and people who don’t. And whenever I encounter someone who

doesn’t, I disregard them.

I’m in a constant state of irritation these days. I just don’t want to deal with

people anymore. I set my phone facedown on the arm of the couch. I look at

Dustin, then Scott, then Mom. Her breathing looks so strenuous. She’s

struggling to hang on. I hate this.

Mom takes a sharp breath in, then out. The hospice nurse locks eyes with

Dad, gives a slight nod. Dad looks at us. Mom’s gone.

We’re all numb. We don’t cry. We just sit. In silence. Finally, I pick up my

phone. A hundred messages have poured in. Everyone’s heard. E! News broke

the story. How the fuck they already know, I have no idea.

I go to my text tab, then click on the chain with Current Guy. I stare at his

last text: Don’t say that, boo. Your mom’s not gonna die.

I text him back: She just did.

aer

56.

WE EACH SAY OUR GOODBYES, WHICH just involve us staring numbly at Mom’s

dead body. The nurse wheels Mom’s hospital bed out and into the hospice van.

Dad asks us what we should do and suggests we get out of the house, go

somewhere. None of us respond. He pitches the South Coast Plaza, a luxury

shopping mall about twenty minutes away. We pile into the car.

I need an iPhone case, so we head into the Apple store. A small, upbeat

employee with white teeth and a receding hairline approaches us.

“Well hey there, how’s your day goin’?” He ashes a smile. We meet him with

blank stares. Reading the room, Apple guy drops the smile and redirects. I

appreciate this about him.

“Anything I can help you guys with today?”

I get my phone case and we’re out of there in ve minutes. We head to a small

café on the same level for lunch. I order a salad, dressing on the side to make

Mom proud. I don’t eat a single bite of it. I feel lucky, grateful even, that trauma

has nally resulted in my lack of hunger. Sure, Mom died, but at least I’m not

eating. At least I feel thin and valuable and good about my body, my smallness. I

look like a kid again. I’m determined to keep this up. I’m honoring Mom.

That night, I get home to my big lonely house. Billy and his guys left all their

tools out since they’re returning tomorrow. Tarps cover the living room

furniture. I sit on one of the tarps and look around. I think I might hate this

house.

I dget. The tarp crinkles and makes an annoyingly loud sound. I don’t know

what to do with myself. I open a bottle of whiskey and drink a few gulps straight

from the bottle, then text Colton and a few other friends to see if they’ll keep me

company.

We all head to Little Tokyo and sit down at a sushi place for dinner. I down a

bottle of sake. The menus are passed around. I want everything. I want to eat all

of it.

I’m so confused. This past month, I haven’t been able to even think about

food. Every day, I’ve been living o whiskey, Coke Zeros, and two individual

bags of barbeque Baked Lay’s. What the fuck is happening? I’m starving.

Ravenous.

I haven’t been engaged in a single second of the ten-minute conversation. I’m

sure everyone has mistaken my silence for grief. But this isn’t grief. This is my

secret food obsession.

By the time the waitress comes around, I can’t decide what to order, but I’m

drunk enough that I just choose the rst thing I see—the teriyaki bowl. I tell

myself I’ll just eat the steamed cabbage on the side, maybe a few bites of steamed

rice, but by the time the piping-hot bowl is placed in front of me, I can’t hold

back. I devour every bite as quickly as I can. I order another bottle of sake,

another side of steamed rice, some egg rolls, and a bowl of ice cream for dessert. I

drink the full bottle and eat every bite of the food.

We get back to my place and my head is spinning from the alcohol. We play a

board game and listen to music, but I’m just going through the motions. My

mind is only on one thing—the amount of food I ate and what I’m going to do

about it.

I try and rush everyone out of my house as quickly as possible, which is a hard

thing to do when you’re the one who invited them on the day of your mother’s

death to keep you company. As each person leaves, they double-check that I

don’t need anyone to stay overnight with me.

As soon as they’re all gone, I race up my stairs and into my master bathroom.

Billy’s equipment is all sprawled out, so I tiptoe around the piles to get to the

toilet. I lift the lid, crouch down onto my knees, and shove my ngers down my

throat.

Nothing. Fuck. I try again, harder. Ow. I poke my throat and taste a little

blood. I must’ve scratched it raw. Oh well. I’m making this happen. I take a

steady breath, shove my ngers back as far as I can, as hard as I can, and nally

vomit spews up and out of my mouth, landing in the toilet. I look down at it, at

the little chunks of rice and chicken and the frothy melted ice cream. I feel

victorious.

So what if I fucked up and ate? So what if I failed? So fucking what? All I

have to do is shove my ngers down my throat and watch my mistake be

undone. This is the start of something good.

57.

I’M LOOKING AT MYSELF IN the mirror while I do my hair and makeup for Mom’s

service. I’m doing everything she liked best, which also happen to be the things

that I like least—hot curling my hair, overlining a bold red lip, and scraping

eyeliner along my sensitive tear ducts. The end result is a bit more severe than I

would’ve hoped, but I don’t have time to redo it so this will have to do.

I pull on my black dress robotically, zip it up, and throw on a pair of heels.

Marcus, who’s been staying with me this week, drives. His wife Elizabeth sits

shotgun. I’m in the back. I use the hour-and-a-half ride down to make up my

mind. It’s a big decision, and it deserves a chunk of dedicated thought.

The ride down is hell. Bumper-to-bumper trac, and Sara Bareilles’s “Brave”

is the biggest song on the radio right now, so it blares from the speakers every

third song. On a regular day, Sara’s ne, but the last thing I want to hear on the

day of my mother’s funeral is how much Sara Bareilles wants to see me be brave.

I try to ignore it. I shut my eyes to focus, trying hard to nd an answer.

Am I or am I not going to sing “Wind Beneath My Wings” at Mom’s

funeral?

During these last few months of Mom’s life, her request has tormented me.

I’ve been thinking about it constantly. I even practiced the song every night last

month until my neighbor taped a piece of paper to my door that read: NO MORE

BETTE MIDLER.

Due to some lingering Mormon beliefs, I think this means Mom will be

looking down at me today, disappointed, from her throne in the Celestial

Kingdom—the highest kingdom of heaven in the Mormon faith. No way Mom

wound up in the Terrestrial or Telestial trash kingdoms. Gross.

I’m whipped out of my train of thought when Sara starts pulling out all the

stops on that nal chorus. You know what? Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should

be brave. Maybe I should sing “Wind Beneath My Wings” at Mom’s funeral. For

Christ’s sake, literally. My afterlife depends on it.

Marcus turns into the parking lot of the Garden Grove 6th Ward of the

Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the church we grew up in. We walk

up the front steps and in through the back door. I haven’t been here in years, but

it looks and smells exactly how I remember it. Carpet cleaner and burlap, baby.

White tiles in the entryway, blue carpet in the hallways, pictures of Christ in

various settings with disciples plastered everywhere. (Long hair on a guy does

nothing for me, but the man does have a great jawline.)

Marcus and Elizabeth peel o to greet people so I’m left alone. I head to the

family waiting room and take a seat next to bleary-eyed Dustin, Scottie, and

Grandma. I reach in my purse and pull out the “Wind Beneath My Wings” sheet

music that I printed out last night, just in case. I thumb it and go over the words

to make sure I have them memorized. I’m mentally singing it to myself, cringing

when I get to the chorus. Shit. I know in my heart that I’m incapable of singing

this song, but I feel like I have to. I can’t break the last promise I made to my

dying mother.

I see the pianist walk by and I’m about to hand her the sheet music, but just

then, the pallbearers show up to bring Mom’s casket into the room. They are

milking their moment. Pallbearers love the spotlight. My brothers are crying.

Grandma’s wailing. “There aren’t enough cold cuts! We underestimated the

turnout!”

I’m the headliner of the eulogy lineup, so I have all the eulogies to sit through

while I go back and forth on whether there’s any way I can attempt the song. I

would say I could bring the whole song down a step or two, but then the verses

will be too low. I would say I could tweak the chorus melody, but let’s be real,

you don’t “tweak” a Bette Midler melody. Bette knew what she was doing.

It’s my turn.

I walk up to the podium. I’m shaking. Since I didn’t give the sheet music to

the pianist, my only option left to sing “Wind Beneath My Wings” at Mom’s

funeral is to just blurt it out a capella. I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and

then I just… start crying. It’s a guttural cry that puts my Hollywood Homicide

audition to shame. I keep crying. And keep crying. Until the Bishop taps me on

the shoulder.

“We only have the chapel for another fteen minutes. We have to prep for

John Trader’s baptism.”

I walk ostage. No Bette Midler.

58.

“THANKS FOR BEING SUCH A good sport,” our assistant director tells me with a

pitying, appreciative glance.

“Uh-huh,” I say monotonously while two children bounce on me as we get

ready to rehearse this scene for the seventh time so the kids can get their marks

right. I’ve seen The Creator re children for little reasons, like if they lose a line

or don’t hit their mark, so on rehearsal days like today, our directors like to be

extra sure the kids know what they’re doing so that they don’t lose their jobs.

I hear that phrase a lot these days. “Thanks for being such a good sport.” I

hear it on a daily basis: not only from our assistant director but from my

managers every time I’m on the phone with them, from a writer or producer at

least once a week, even from a network executive who sent me a ve-hundred-

dollar gift card to Barneys with that very phrase inscribed on the attached note.

I know why I’m hearing this phrase so often. It’s because my co-star Ariana

Grande is a burgeoning pop star who misses work regularly to go sing at award

shows, record new songs, and do press for her upcoming album while I stay back

and angrily hold down the fort. I understand on a surface level why she has to

miss work. But at the same time, I don’t understand why she’s allowed to. I

booked two features during iCarly that I had to turn down because the iCarly

team wouldn’t write me out of episodes to go shoot them.

I’ve tried to calm myself down by thinking the whole situation through.

Okay, ne. Maybe they couldn’t let me shoot the movies because they would’ve

had to write me out of episodes completely, whereas for my co-star, they let her

do her music obligations because she’s just missing rehearsal days and parts of

shoot days but not entire weeks.

Then this week happened. The week where I was told Ariana would not be

here at all, and that they would write around her absence this episode by having

her character be locked in a box.

Are you. Kidding me.

So I have to turn down movies while Ariana’s o whistle-toning at the

Billboard Music Awards?

Fuck. This.

There was a time when I took the “Thanks for being such a good sport”

comment as a true compliment. I took pride in it. Mom always taught me to be

one growing up, always wanted me to be one so I’d book more roles and build a

good reputation to help my acting career grow. So when I was called one, I knew

I was doing something right. Yep. I’m a good sport. I’m a good egg. I’m the good

one, the one who’s not diﬃcult, the teacher’s pet.

But now, I’m over it. I’ve become a bitter person and I’m resigned to that

fact. I can’t change my circumstances, so why try to change who I’ve become as a

result of them? I’m done being a good sport. I resent being a good sport. If I

wasn’t such a good sport to begin with, I wouldn’t be in this predicament in the

rst place. I wouldn’t be on this shitty show saying these shitty lines on this

shitty set with this shitty hairstyle. Maybe my life would be entirely dierent

right now. I fantasize about it being dierent.

But it’s not dierent. It’s this. This is what it is. Ariana misses work in pursuit

of her music career while I act with a box. I’m pissed about it. And I’m pissed at

her. Jealous of her. For a few reasons.

The rst is that she had a much easier upbringing than I did. I grew up in

Garbage Grove in a goddamned hoarder house with a cancerous mom who

constantly wept about not being able to aord rent and utility bills. Ariana grew

up in Boca Raton, Florida, an incredibly wealthy, idyllic town, with a healthy

mom who could buy her whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted—Gucci

bags, fancy vacations, Chanel outts. I don’t even want Chanel outts—I don’t

like the way the fabric looks—and yet I’m jealous that she had them.

The second is that when I initially got a development deal with Nickelodeon

for my own show a few years ago, I thought it was gonna be just that… my own

show. This was supposed to be Just Puckett, the harrowing tale of a brassy

juvenile delinquent–turned–school counselor. Now it’s some half-baked two-

hander—Sam & Cat—about a brassy juvenile delinquent who, with her “ditzy

best friend,” starts a babysitting company called “Sam & Cat’s Super Rockin’

Fun-Time Babysitting Service.” This is not harrowing.

The third is that Ariana is at the stage in her career where she’s popping up

on every 30 Under 30 list that exists. And I’m at the stage in my career where my

team is excited that I’m the new face of Rebecca Bonbon, a tween clothing line

featuring a cat with her tongue sticking out. Sold exclusively at Walmart. And I

frequently make the mistake of comparing my career to Ariana’s. I can’t help it.

I’m constantly in the same environment as her, and she doesn’t exactly try to

hide her successes.

At rst, I managed my jealousy well. When she came skipping onto set saying

she’d be performing at the Billboard Awards, I didn’t care. So what? She’s

pursuing a music career—a thing I quit doing because I hated it. And in her

pursuit of that career, she’s going to go sing some cheesy pop song on a stage, a

task that sounds truly awful to me. I was unfazed.

Then she came trotting onto set saying she’d be on the cover of Elle

magazine. That one got to me, but only out of my own insecurity. Am I not

pretty enough to be on covers of magazines? Would I be the one on covers if this

show wasn’t a two-hander? Is she robbing me of opportunities that would have

been mine? I stued down my jealousy and carried on.

But what nally undid me was when Ariana came whistle-toning in with

excitement because she had spent the previous evening playing charades at Tom

Hanks’s house. That was the moment I broke. I couldn’t take it anymore. Music

performances and magazine covers… whatever, I’ll get over it. But playing a

family game at National Treasure, two-time Academy Award–winner and six-

time nominee Tom Hanks’s house? I’m done.

From that moment on, I didn’t like her. I couldn’t like her. Pop star success I

could handle, but hanging out with Sheri Woody, with Forrest Fucking

Gump? This has gone too far.

So now, every time she misses work it feels like a personal attack. Every time

something exciting happens to her, I feel like she robbed me of having that

experience myself. And every time someone calls me a good sport, all I feel is

how much I don’t want to be one. Fuck being a good sport, I’d rather be playing

charades with Tom Hanks.

59.

COLTON AND I ARE CHUGGING tequila Pocket Shots in the back seat of Liam’s

2009 Toyota Corolla while he drives. The Pocket Shots are disgusting. We

almost gag with each one down, but we keep on chugging. We want to be nice

and obliterated by the time we arrive.

“How you guys doing?” Liam coyly asks, wheeling around while he’s at a

stop sign. This is the fth or sixth time he’s asked it, and every time, he looks

right at me like I’m the only one whose answer he cares about.

Liam and I met at Colton’s friend’s Cinco de Mayo party a couple months

back. He was making himself some fajitas from the buet table. Six foot two

with a shaggy haircut and wide-set eyes, I beelined for him. We bonded over

margaritas and our mutual attraction to each other. The stu of substance.

“Couldn’t be doing better,” I slur as I split another Pocket Shot with Colton.

God, I’m so fun.

“Good. Good,” Liam says with a wink. I’ve always been impressed by a man

who can make a wink not creepy. He keeps driving.

I haven’t had sex yet, but it’s starting to feel like an appropriate time. I’m not

scared of it anymore. I’m not scared of anything anymore, because I don’t really

care about anything anymore since Mom died.

Liam seems like a solid person to lose my virginity to. I like him just ne but I

don’t care about him in a deep way, so I don’t have to fear growing attached to

him the second after we have sex—which is a genuine fear of mine since I’ve

heard about this feminine weakness a hundred times. I want to do anything to

avoid it. I don’t want to be some weak, smitten woman who falls for a man just

because he was inside her. I want to be stronger than that.

Liam and I are gonna do it soon. I just know. Maybe tonight we’ll kiss for the

rst time and then maybe in a week or two we’ll nally have sex, once enough

tension has built up that we just have to break it. I’m excited as I fantasize about

it. I chug another Pocket Shot.

Twenty minutes later and we’ve arrived at the dance club where our friend

Emmy is having her twenty-rst birthday party.

Colton and Liam help me hobble in since I’m so wasted and wearing such

high heels that I’m not walking straight. We get inside and head to the bar. We

order three drinks and guzzle them.

The party itself is ne, a little boring even while inebriated. I see Emmy

watching Liam out of the corner of her eye. I hate when females are so obvious

with their crushes. If you’re obvious, some other little bitch can come along and

exploit that crush, use it against you, betray you with it. I learned this from

Mom’s long-winded speeches about trusting women even less than men. “Men,

they’ll hurt you without ever really knowing you,” she often told me. “But

women… women will know you deeply, intimately, and then hurt you. You tell

me which is worse.”

And so I don’t trust women. I just observe them. I watch them act desperate

and weak and pathetic. It’s so embarrassing to be a woman. I study women like

Emmy so that I can be dierent from them. Better than them.

I nurse another drink as I watch Emmy chat up Liam overanimatedly. And

for too long. And with too many irty blinks and hair tucks and “inadvertent”

touchings of his arm. She’s doing it all wrong. Poor thing. I do the opposite of

Emmy and ignore Liam completely for the rest of the party. It’s almost too easy.

Two hours later we’re back at my place. Liam dropped Colton o on the way

home, so it’s just the two of us. Liam throws me onto the bed and takes o my

copper dress. I’m dizzy. The room is spinning. I’m wasted. I’m confused. Where

the fuck am I?

“What’s happening?” I nally ask.

“I’m having sex with you,” Liam says in a tone that nauseates me. It’s halfway

to a baby voice, the same inection as what a baby voice would do, but without

jumping up an octave.

I kind of want to stop. This is not at all how I intended to lose my virginity. I

never expected it would happen tonight. I thought tonight would be all about

the magical rst kiss, and the virginity thing could be done in a week or two. I

thought I’d have time to mentally and emotionally prepare.

But I also kind of want to keep going. Who cares about the rituals and

preparation? If anything, I’m relieved to be getting my virginity over with.

Fuck it. I say nothing. I squint my eyes to try and ground myself in some way

so I can see straight. Finally I do. Liam’s holding my hips as he pumps into me

repeatedly. A bead of sweat is trickling down his forehead. Gross.

Liam eventually pulls out. He cums. I don’t.

The next morning, I wake up in a puddle of sweat. I feel suocated. Trapped.

Like I’m in a straightjacket. My eyes y open. Liam is spooning me. He must’ve

been spooning me all night with the amount I’m sweating. I try and break free,

but I can’t. A fucking giant is draped over me. That’s the thing about being a

small woman. Every man feels like a giant. I squirm. That doesn’t work either.

Finally, I start poking him until he wakes up, then I pretend that I wasn’t poking

him and that he must’ve just felt something.

He looks me deep in the eyes and smiles at me. Says that last night was

amazing. I lie to him by agreeing. Figure I’ll come up with a plan to ditch him

later on when I’m alone.

He tries to hug me more but I tell him I really have to pee. I jump up to go to

the bathroom and suddenly realize how incredibly sore I am. Walking hurts, so I

waddle instead. I get to the bathroom and pull down my underwear to pee.

There’s some blood on them. I know it’s not my period—I haven’t gotten it for

years because of my various eating disorders. It must just be from having sex for

the rst time.

Peeing stings and burns, so I do it in little spurts, as if prolonging the pain

will make it hurt any less. It doesn’t. Finally, I’m done.

I spend ten minutes washing my hands, lathering them up, then washing

them, then lathering them up and washing them again. I’m stalling. I don’t want

to go back in there with Liam. Something about his presence makes me

uncomfortable.

Knock-knock-knock.

“You all right in there?”

I tell him I’m not feeling well. He leaves.

I Postmates myself some breakfast. Eggs and bacon and toast and potatoes

and a latte with whipped cream. I eat rapidly, desperately, until I’m halfway

through. I can stop here. I’m full, I don’t have to keep going. I can interrupt the

cycle. I chuck the takeout box in the trash. Overwhelm oods my whole body. I

rush to the bathroom, lift the toilet lid, and purge my breakfast. I wash up.

Usually I’m depleted by this point but this time I’m not. I’m still lled with

pent-up anxieties. I need to rid myself of these fucking feelings.

I run back to the trash can and pull out the takeout box. I stu my mouth

with eggs and chew rapidly. Fuck what am I doing I need to stop I need to stop. I

spit out the half-chewed eggs into the trash can. I grab a perfume bottle from the

bathroom and squirt some on the remaining food to guarantee that I won’t eat

any more of it. But then I eat more of it. The perfume makes me gag. I throw up.

60.

“YOU’RE LOOKING GREAT.”

“You’re really starting to blossom.”

“You’ve never looked better, but I’d stop where you are. Any more and you’ll

start to look bad-thin.”

“Your body looks outstanding.”

These are all comments spoken to me over the past few weeks by producers,

agents, and crew members that I work with. I have gotten more positive—and

creepy—comments on my body over these past few weeks than I ever have

before.

I have over a decade’s worth of eating disorder experience at this point. There

were the anorexic years, the binge-eating ones, and the current bulimic ones.

The more experience I’ve got, the more I recognize that the body is hardly a

reliable reection of what’s going on inside it. My body has uctuated

frequently and drastically throughout this decade, and no matter how it’s

uctuated, no matter whether my body is a kids’ size 10 slim or an adult size 6,

I’ve had an issue underneath it.

People don’t seem to get that unless they have a history with eating disorders.

People seem to assign thin with “good,” heavy with “bad,” and too thin also

with “bad.” There’s such a small window of “good.” It’s a window that I

currently fall into, even though my habits are so far from good. I’m abusing my

body every day. I’m miserable. I’m depleted. And yet the compliments keep

pouring in.

“I’ve gotta say, when you’re doing run-throughs and you walk out the door for a

scene, it’s really hard for me to not focus on your ass. I hope it’s not creepy that I said

that. I meant it as a compliment.”

61.

IT’S MONDAY, MY FAVORITE DAY of the work week for two reasons. The rst is

that this is our shortest rehearsal day. The second is that every Monday, when we

come in for the table read, we get an updated schedule dropped on the table in

front of us so we can see episode titles, directors, and shoot dates for upcoming

episodes. And each time that schedule is dropped in front of me, I get to see my

name there on one of the episode titles as director.

I signed on to do the spin-o mostly to placate Mom. But I also did it

because The Creator promised me this very thing—a position as director on one

of the episodes. Sure, directing one of The Creator’s shows is not exactly the best

way to ex your creative muscles, since The Creator is ever-present during the

shoot, adamant about his own ideas, and not very receptive to anyone else’s. But

getting to direct an episode of television is a chance to make the industry nally

see me as something more than just a kids’ TV actor. It’s a way of showing that I

have value outside the box I’ve been put in. I really want this.

The dates of my directing job have been pushed a few times, but I’ve

repeatedly been assured that this is just because of scheduling conicts with

other slated directors. I’ve also been assured that the newest dates that I’ve been

given—dates for one of our nal episodes—are locked. I’m set to direct.

I grab my coee, sit down in my chair, and watch as our production assistant

drops the updated schedules in front of each person at the table. Come on,

Bradley, let’s pick up the pace here.

“Here you go,” he says as he drops the salmon-colored sheet in front of me.

I pick it up and look down toward the bottom of the page to the place where

the nal episodes are listed. The place where I should be seeing my name in one

of those little “directed by” boxes.

But instead, I see two letters: N/A. It must be a typo. I look around to meet

anybody else’s eyes, but there are only a few crew members in here so far, and

our ever-sewing wardrobe person isn’t gonna know a thing about this.

My breathing gets weird and rapid. I look around for any of our producers

who might know something about this, but none of them are in the room yet. I

can’t believe it. I feel like I just got the wind knocked out of me.

Executives and producers start ling in. I lock eyes with one of them, the one

I trust most out of these people I don’t trust.

We’ll talk about it later, he mouths.

No. I don’t want to talk about it later. I want to sort through this now. What

the fuck is happening? They can’t possibly expect me to sit here and be a

professional and do a table read when they’ve just taken away the one thing that

I wanted out of this whole process.

I ght back tears as I realize that I’ve been foolish. I believed that these people

would do what they said they would. Give me what they’d promised. Now that

I’ve shown up to work every day, been a professional, swallowed my anger, and

carried a show for almost forty episodes, now that they’ve gotten what they

wanted out of me—they’re taking away the very reason why I was doing all of

those things in the rst place. I feel betrayed.

After the table read I call my agents and managers and they advise me to play

ball, to be the “good sport” I’ve always been. But I’m so fucking tired of being a

good sport. I don’t know how much longer I can be one.

It’s Friday of the same week. A shoot day. It took an hour and a half for Patti—

my makeup artist but also one of my dear friends in this crew—to do my

makeup because I couldn’t stop crying. I’m a mess. I’m distraught. I feel

deceived and hurt and angry. I’ve told Patti what’s going on, so she’s even

accompanied me a few times to various producers’ oces as I try and garner a

conversation with them, but each time I’m rejected. No one will speak with me.

Everyone is tight-lipped. They’re clearly all in this together, and not in a fun

High School Musical clap-it-high kind of way.

I pull on my costume sluggishly and head down to set. I haven’t memorized

my lines because I don’t care anymore. I wish they would just re me. This place

is toxic and bad for my already poor mental health. I want out.

I arrive to set for a scene in a boxing ring. (One of my castmates plays a boxer

who is managed by a ten-year-old.) I thumb through my lines, silent.

We start rolling. First take, I get through—barely. Second take, I get through

—barely. Third take—I don’t get through at all. In the middle of my second line,

my breathing gets away from me and speeds up, like it does whenever a panic

attack is coming on. Shit. I see stars. I’m afraid I’m gonna pass out. Then I

collapse on the oor. My chest heaves. Drool spills out of my mouth as the most

hideous, intense cry of my life pours out of me. In front of everyone: the cast,

the crew, the extras.

Finally, one of my co-stars, the one who plays the boxer, picks me up and

carries me o set. He takes me to my dressing room and sits with me. Patti joins.

They comfort me and tell me they understand. They’re here for me.

Then someone knocks on the door. I’m immediately frozen with fear. Patti

shouts that we’ll be out in a minute. A booming voice from the other side

demands to come in. I can tell it’s one of our producers.

“Yeah, not now,” Patti says rudely to the producer on the other side of the

door. I love her. I appreciate her. She has the balls to stand up to these people.

“Can I just talk to Jennette for a minute? I feel for her,” the producer says.

A part of me believes them. Or at least wants to believe them. Another part of

me is suspicious. I choose to believe them. I allow them in. They ask if we can

speak privately. The others leave.

They sit down on the couch opposite me.

“I like how you’ve decorated the place,” they joke, since I’ve added absolutely

nothing to this cold box of a dressing room.

I don’t laugh. They clear their throat.

“I’m assuming this is about your being removed from the directors’ slate.”

“It’s about a lot of things.”

A beat. They proceed.

“I want you to know that I vouched for you. I wanted you to direct. And

there’s somebody else here who doesn’t want you to direct. Very badly, they

don’t want you to direct. So badly that they said they would quit the show if you

did. And we can’t aord that. So we had to remove you from the slate. I just

want you to know that it’s not your fault.”

I’m stunned. I have no words. The producer gets up and exits, shutting the

door quietly behind them.

Somebody didn’t want me to direct? So much so that they said they’d quit

the show if I did? I don’t even understand how something like this is possible. I

make myself throw up again and again and again. I don’t know how else to deal

with everything happening around me. I don’t know how else to cope with so

much of my life being so out of my control. I look around at the white walls.

Maybe I should decorate the place. The prop master knocks on my door to

deliver the buttersock for my next scene.

62.

I’M WALKING AROUND WHOLE FOODS buying groceries for the week. I’m

coughing up the big bucks for my produce and frozen meals because I’m

hopeful that if I spend an obscene amount for a bag’s worth of food, I will be

less likely to throw it up.

By this point, I’m starting to realize that bulimia is not sustainable for me.

My throat bleeds daily, my teeth feel softer, my cheeks look puer, my stomach

struggles to digest food, and I’ve gotten a handful of cavities since this started. I

think I want to change, but so far, willpower has gotten me nowhere. Every

morning I tell myself I’m not gonna throw up today, and every morning by ten

a.m. I already have. Since willpower clearly hasn’t worked, this Whole Foods

thing is me trying a dierent strategy.

I pull a frozen meatloaf meal from the shelf and inspect the nutrition label

for calories and fat: 440 calories, 15 grams of fat. No way. I put that shit back.

Another one of my brand-new strategies is lowering my calorie intake like I

did when I was a kid. I gure that if I keep my calories low, maybe the urge to

throw up will go away and I’ll be able to keep my food down. At least this is

what I tell myself on the surface. But deep down, I know the truth.

The truth is that I wish I had anorexia, not bulimia. I’m pining for anorexia.

I’ve grown humiliated by bulimia, which I used to think of as the best of both

worlds—eat what you want, throw it all up, stay thin. But now it doesn’t feel

like the best of both worlds. It feels terrible.

I’m lled with so much shame and anxiety every time after I eat, I literally

don’t know what to do to make myself feel better except throw up. And after

I’m done, I half do. Half of me feels depleted, exhausted, like there’s nothing

left, which is helpful. The other half of me now has a splitting headache, a sore

throat, vomit sliding down my arm and tangled in my hair, and even more shame

on top of the initial shame since now I’ve not only eaten but thrown up, too.

Bulimia is not the answer.

Anorexia is.

Anorexia is regal, in control, all-powerful. Bulimia is out of control, chaotic,

pathetic. Poor man’s anorexia. I have friends with anorexia, and I can tell they

pity me. I know they know because anyone with an eating disorder can tell when

anyone else has an eating disorder. It’s like a secret code you can’t help but pick

up on.

Now that I’ve got my Whole Foods plan and my anorexia mission, I’m feeling

motivation that I haven’t felt since Mom died. Sure, most things are out of my

control. Losing people I love, being on a show I’m ashamed of, directing jobs

being pulled from me—but this? This I can control.

I push my cart a bit farther down the aisle and pick up some black bean

hamburger patties: 180 calories a patty, and 5 grams of fat. I place this delicate

angel of a food into my cart with great reverence since it is on my side. Helping

my mission.

I push my cart forward. My phone starts ringing. Grandma.

I’ve never much liked my grandma. As a toddler, I hated the way she stroked

my back and ran her hands through my hair. It was like she didn’t know how to

touch from a nurturing, comforting place, she only knew how to touch from a

seductive place. It disgusted me.

When I was growing up, Grandma’s favorite hobbies were gossiping on the

phone and getting perms and complaining. Her feet hurt, her shirt’s too tight,

her perm’s not the right color, Louise never called back, Grandpa’s not home

from work early enough, gas is too expensive, Souplantation took cornbread o

the menu.

It’s not just that she’s a bitter old woman dryly airing her grievances with a

cigarette hanging out of her mouth, which would be funny at least. She’s always

teary-eyed, always wailing, always making her problems everybody else’s.

For all these reasons, I don’t like or respect her. And I don’t think she likes

me much either, but she would never admit that because she’s too busy crying

about me not liking her.

Since Mom died, I’ve tried to work on our relationship a bit. I’ll try to text

her back when I can, I’ll call her every few days, and I’ll send her an email once a

week. There is way more maintenance to this relationship than I would like, and

even so, it’s not nearly enough for her, which I’m told every time we do talk.

I’m emotionally spent, but I keep giving to this relationship because I don’t

want to be a dick and cut o my daughterless grandmother.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket. I head down the aisle and nd some

frozen vegetables. Pull out a bag and set it in my cart. My phone starts ringing

again.

Grandma.

I text her: I’ll call you in a minute.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket, this time with some irritation, and head

to the produce section. I grab a bag of pink lady apples, some carrot sticks, and a

coconut that I’m not sure what to do with but it looks nice so why not.

She calls again. I want to throw my phone. Instead I answer it, leaving a hint

of irritation in my delivery so Grandma can tell I’m annoyed.

“Grandma, can I call you when I’m home? I’m getting groceries.”

She’s wailing. She says something, but it’s indiscernible through the wails.

I’m concerned. I ask if everything’s all right. She keeps wailing. I ask again.

“You… you… You never call meeeeeeee!” she nally gets out.

Every time she calls wailing, I assume it’s because Grandpa died. His health is

rapidly declining. I know she knows I jump to this conclusion because I’ve told

her before. I’ve asked her if she can try to taper her screaming and crying. Every

time I tell her this, she assures me she’ll never do it again. She does it every time.

I tell her sternly that I’ll call her back when I get home, then hang up my

phone. It starts ringing again. By now it’s not only me that’s stressed, but the

makeup-less yogi with the hemp tunic who’s shopping in front of me. I envy her

glass skin. She eyes me. I’m embarrassed.

Grandma calls again. I give up. I leave my grocery cart where it is and head

out of the store. Glass Skin looks pleased. I wonder if I should try microneedling.

I cross the parking lot, and in the time since I’ve been in the store, a

thunderstorm has started. One of the rare annual LA thunderstorms. Typically,

I avoid driving in the rain because I don’t like driving to begin with, let alone

when there’s rain involved. I get in my Mini Cooper and just as I turn on the

engine and my windshield wipers, she starts calling again. It’s hooked up to

Bluetooth, so her voice blares through the speakers. She’s still wailing.

“Grandma,” I say evenly, trying to calm her down. She’s hysterical. She

blubbers through some speech about me hanging up on her. I pull out of the

parking lot and take a right, heading down the main street that leads to my

home.

“Grandma,” I say again, as evenly as I can even though my face is growing hot

with anger. “I was getting groceries. We’re on the phone now. Why’d you call?”

Her tears turn to venom immediately.

“No need to get nasty with me, bitch.”

My grandma frequently refers to me as “bitch.” She always throws a little

extra salt on the word too, for eect.

“Grandma, like I’ve said before, if you keep calling me names and guilting me

every time we get on the phone, I’m gonna block you.”

“Don’t threaten me, little girl.”

“I’m not threatening you. I’m telling you a fact.”

“I’m telling a fact,” Grandma repeats, mocking my voice. “All my other

grandkids call me way more than you do,” Grandma complains.

“How are you?”

“How do you think I am, huh? Did you hear anything I’ve just said? You

don’t treat me well. Your mother must be rolling in her grave.”

I wish I could just roll my eyes at this last thing she says, just write her o as

an old batshit woman. But I can’t. Mom stu is my soft spot, the spot that can’t

be breached. I won’t allow Mom to be used against me. And if she is, I take

desperate measures.

“Okay, Grandma, I’m hanging up and I’m gonna block you.”

“Don’t you dare! Your mother will weep tears up in heaven.”

She always fucking does that. If she knows something hits me in a deep way,

if she knows it hurts, she shoves the knife in deeper and twists it around. How

can a grandmother want to cause her grandchild pain? I know she’s had a hard

life, I know she’s sad and desperate for attention, and I know she’s hurt by my

coldness toward her, but still. I do not think there are any excuses for her

behavior.

“Bye!” I hang up the phone. She calls repeatedly. I pull over, swipe my phone

open, and push block. It feels good. It feels right. A surge of built-up stress leaves

my body. I can breathe normally again.

I get home and I walk up my front steps, slowly because of the rain. I get

inside, my arms empty since I left Whole Foods in a hu. I was planning on

starting my low-calorie anorexia meal plan tonight, but I’m too spent by now.

The plan will have to wait. I order Postmates—bacon, brussels sprouts, and

french fries and beef skewers from a place up the street that I like. I pour myself a

lled-to-the-brim glass of tequila to go with.

I chug down the tequila before the Postmates even arrives. By the time it

does, I’m famished. I devour it as quickly as possible. As soon as I’m done, I

throw it all up.

Fuck it. This works for me. Bulimia helps me. My grandma is blocked and my

body is empty and these are things that I need.

63.

I’VE BEEN GOING THROUGH THE motions at work for weeks. I glance at my lines

in the mornings, making no eort to memorize them for rehearsals. I completely

tune out between takes and for press—the back half of lunch break is typically

crammed with interview after interview for all the teenybopper magazines. Ever

since the directing situation, I’m counting down the days until the show is over.

Twenty days left after today. Just four more episodes. And even still, I’m not

entirely sure I’ll be able to push through until then.

I’m starting to expect I’ll have a bulimia-induced heart attack. It’s hard to

admit it, but a part of me actually wishes I would. Then I wouldn’t have to be

here anymore. My thoughts have gotten dark and dramatic like this in recent

weeks. And while at rst I was aware of the shift, and concerned, it no longer

feels like a shift. It just feels like me.

The disappointments in my life are piling up, and with each added

disappointment, so grows my misery. Mom’s death alone would’ve taken

everything out of me, but since then, the pile has gotten bigger and bigger.

I can’t get a hold on my bulimia. It’s taken me over and I’ve stopped ghting.

What’s the point? It’s stronger than I’ll ever be. It’s easier not to ght it. It’s

easier to accept it, embrace it even.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that I don’t like acting. While I was able to

push through the season for the promise of directing, now that that opportunity

has been taken away from me, I feel that all I’ve ever been and all I ever will be is

an actor. A has-been actor, because who’s gonna wanna hire me when I’ve spent

almost ten years on Nickelodeon? How will I ever get a “real” acting job,

anything out of this phony, bizarre sphere? I never went to college and have no

real-life skills, so even if I wanted to get a profession outside of the entertainment

industry, I’m years away from that being a realistic option.

Men are not doing it for me either. They all just feel like distractions. And

even so, I’d rather distract myself with a bottle of wine a night, or a full glass of

straight whiskey, whatever’s on hand. I’ll even drink vodka, even though my

body’s started rejecting it by breaking out in puy welts every time I have some.

Doesn’t matter to me, the buzz is worth the welts.

I’m hopeless. And I can’t help but carry that hopelessness with me. I walk

slowly, my shoulders hunched. My eyelids are in a perpetual droop. I can’t recall

the last time I smiled unless it was for a scene.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my bad energy is what’s rubbing o on

everyone around me and bringing the on-set vibe down to the miserable slump

it’s been in lately. But I do know better. I know the real reason.

The Creator has gotten in trouble from the network for accusations of his

emotional abuse. I feel like it’s been a long time coming, and should have

happened a lot sooner.

I appreciate the amount of trouble he’s gotten in. It wasn’t just a slap-on-the-

wrist sort of thing. It’s to the point where he’s no longer allowed to be on set

with any actors, which makes communication in between takes complicated.

The Creator sits in a small cave-like room o to the side of the soundstage,

surrounded by piles of cold cuts, his favorite snack, and Kids’ Choice Awards

blimps, his most cherished life accomplishment. He watches our takes on four

separate monitors, one for each camera, that are set up in his lair. Whenever he

wants to give us a note, he tells it to an assistant director, who then has to run

across the entire soundstage to give it to us. So our shoot days went from about

thirteen hours to about seventeen. The general on-set vibe these days can best be

described as malaise meets “dear God please let’s get this over with.”

We’re on the last scene of the day, one that takes place in one of our main sets

—a robot-themed restaurant where all the waiters are, you guessed it, robots. My

character is supposed to jump up on a table and tackle someone… or something.

I don’t know or care. The scenes, the actions, the lines—they all blur together at

this point.

I’ve done the stunt a few times. Between the stunt and the long hours and the

bulimia, I’m spent. All I want to do is get home to some whiskey.

Finally, just past one in the morning, we wrap. I get home, pour myself a full

glass, and down half of it before showering o my false eyelashes, my caked-on

foundation, and my hair spray–sti hair. By the time I’m out, the whiskey’s

kicked in. I’m bleary-eyed when I check my email. Messages pile in—half of

which I won’t even look at because I apply the same haphazard approach to my

inbox folder as I do to everything else in my life these days. I’m about to X out of

the window when I spot an ominous subject line hovering near the bottom of

the unread email string. It’s from my management company, saying we need to

talk rst thing in the morning.

I click out of my email, top o my glass, and try to fall asleep.

64.

THE NEXT MORNING I’M ON the phone with Agents 1–3, Managers 1 and 2, and

Attorneys 1 and 2. I don’t remember when exactly the team got so big, and I’m

still not sure why—I can’t remember the last exciting idea anyone on this team

had and half the time they just echo what someone else on the conference call

said then laugh for too long—but apparently this is what you do when you get

successful in showbiz.

“Wait, they’re cancelling the show?” I say, unable to hide my glee.

“Yep, we knew you’d be excited,” Agent #1 says.

“Best part is…” Agent #2 starts in, pausing for dramatic eect (I swear agents

are the best performers.) “… they’re oering you three hundred thousand

dollars.”

I pause. This doesn’t sound right to me. “Why?”

Manager #2 chimes in. I can tell he feels intimidated by the rest of the men, so

by the time he nally chimes in, whatever he says spills out rapidly as if he’s been

prepping himself to say it, working up the condence while the others have been

talking.

“Well-think-of-it-like-a-thank-you-gift,” he blurts out in one mushed-

together phrase. He lets out a sigh of relief after he spits it out, like he’s done his

part and now he doesn’t have to speak again for the rest of the call.

A thank-you gift? I’m suspicious.

“Yeah, a thank-you gift,” Manager #1 repeats. “They’re giving you three

hundred thousand dollars and the only thing they want you to do is never talk

publicly about your experience at Nickelodeon.” Specically related to The

Creator.

“No,” I say immediately and instinctively.

A long pause.

“N-no?” Agent #3 nally asks.

“Hell no.”

“It’s free money,” Manager #1 oers.

“No it’s not. This isn’t free money. This feels to me like hush money.”

A strained silence. One of them clears their throat.

Through the years, I’ve slowly learned that the entertainment business is one

where what’s being said is rarely what’s being talked about. This way of

operating not only disagrees with me but seems genuinely impossible for me to

adapt to. Everyone else seems so able to position things discreetly and

choreograph their phrasing so that the heartbeat of what’s being said is delicately

danced around, but what winds up happening is that I usually just don’t

understand what’s being talked about and have to ask outright.

There are occasional times, however, where I do get exactly what’s

happening, like this time right now. And in these instances, instead of asking

outright what’s going on, I’ll just say it. The results vary. Sometimes it’s laughter.

Sometimes it’s discomfort. This time it’s discomfort.

“Well, I-I wouldn’t think of it that way if I were you,” Manager #1 says with a

nervous laugh.

“That’s what it is, though. I’m not taking hush money.”

“Well, um, okay. If you’re sure…” Agent #1 or #2 says (their voices are

indiscernible).

And with that, they all hang up. Click. Click. Click. Until I’m the only one

left on the conference call line. I hang up too and sit on the edge of my bed.

What the fuck? Nickelodeon is oering me three hundred thousand dollars

in hush money to not talk publicly about my experience on the show? My

personal experience of The Creator’s abuse? This is a network with shows made

for children. Shouldn’t they have some sort of moral compass? Shouldn’t they at

least try to report to some sort of ethical standard?

I lean back against the headboard of my bed and cross my legs out in front of

me. I extend my arms behind my head and rest them there in a gesture of pride.

Who else would have the moral strength? I just turned down three hundred

thousand dollars.

Wait…

I just turned down three hundred thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money.

I’ve made a decent amount on this Sam & Cat spin-o, but denitely not

enough that three hundred thousand dollars doesn’t make a dierence. Shit.

Maybe I should’ve taken it.

65.

THE SHOW HAS BEEN OVER for three and a half weeks and the story the press has

run with is that it ended because I was upset that my co-star was getting paid

more than me, which is upsetting to me because it’s untrue. My manager told

me it was cancelled because of a sexual harassment claim against one of our

producers.

Whatever. They’ve got to blame someone, so they’ve chosen me, and there’s

nothing I can do about it.

Except to tell the truth. Which I consider doing on multiple occasions but

never bring myself to do because speaking out about the show and my time at

Nickelodeon will just keep my connection to the show and Nickelodeon at the

front of people’s minds. If anything, it will cement my position as “girl on

Nickelodeon.” As “Sam.”

I hate being known as Sam. I absolutely hate it. I’ve tried to nd some peace

with it, but I haven’t. When people say, “You look like that girl from iCarly,” I

just say, “Nope, not me.” Every single day, many times a day, people shout at me

things like, “Sam!” “Fried chicken!” or “iCarly girl!” and then ask for a picture. I

say no and walk away. Sometimes they’ll call after me and say that I’m rude. I

keep walking.

I will, however, take a picture with anyone who knows my actual name

because I genuinely appreciate the courtesy. But anyone else—nope.

I know I’ve grown bitter. I know I’ve grown resentful. But I don’t fucking

care. I feel like that show robbed me of my youth, of a normal adolescence where

I could experience life without every little thing I did being critiqued, discussed,

or ridiculed.

I started to thoroughly dislike fame by the time I turned sixteen, but now at

twenty-one, I despise it.

It doesn’t help that I’m famous for a thing I started when I was a kid. I think

of what it would be like if everyone was famous for a thing they did when they

were thirteen: their middle school band, their seventh-grade science project, their

eighth-grade play. The middle school years are the years to stumble, fall, and tuck

under the rug as soon as you’re done with them because you’ve already

outgrown them by the time you’re fteen.

But not for me. I’m cemented in people’s minds as the person I was when I

was a kid. A person I feel like I’ve far outgrown. But the world won’t let me

outgrow it. The world won’t let me be anyone else. The world only wants me to

be Sam Puckett.

I’m aware enough to know how fucking annoying and whiney this all

sounds. Millions of people dream of being famous, and here I am with fame and

hating it. I somehow feel entitled to my hatred since I was not the one who

dreamed of being famous. Mom was. Mom pushed this on me. I’m allowed to

hate someone else’s dream, even if it’s my reality.

66.

I’M IN THE BACK SEAT of an Uber with Colton. I’m wearing a very little black

dress and some too-high heels. I gure the higher the heel, the better the chance

of it taking away some of my insecurity. So far, no such luck.

Bulimia kept weight o me for the rst few months. But since those rst few

months, bulimia has betrayed me. My body seems like it’s retaining whatever

food it possibly can. Refusing to get any smaller and, in fact, getting bigger.

I’ve put on ten pounds since those rst few months of bulimia, when I was

Mom’s goal weight for me. These ten pounds are the rst thing I notice when I

wake up in the morning, the last thing I notice when my head hits the pillow at

night, and the thing that I most often notice throughout the course of any given

day. I’m obsessed with these ten pounds. Tortured by them.

I don’t understand. Why won’t my body do what I want it to do? Why won’t

bulimia help me out anymore? I thought we were friends. I thought bulimia had

my back. Clearly it doesn’t. Clearly I had this whole relationship wrong. Yet I

can’t seem to get out of it. I feel stuck to, enslaved by, codependent with my

bulimia.

The driver pulls up to the bar and lets us out. Colton and I spill onto the

street and rush into the bar, where some friends are already there nursing their

drinks.

“Happy birthday!” they all shout at me simultaneously. One of them passes

me a shot of tequila. I throw it back, then another. And another.

Within an hour, I’m wasted. Fifty or so friends have shown up by then, and

we’re all having a decent enough time, when I’m frozen by the image of my

friend Bethany walking toward me. She’s carrying a cake with candles.

Shit. Not cake with candles. Anything but cake with candles.

Bethany extends her free arm out and squeezes me into a tight one-armed

hug. Even with just one arm, it kind of hurts. Bethany is a strong woman.

“You’re, like, not a good hugger,” she says in her trademark upswing, Valley

girl lilt.

“Yeah, well…”

“I brought a cake. It’s vanilla, your favorite. And it has this, like, really cool

vanilla buttercream topping that’s supposed to be, like, amazing.”

“Great,” I lie.

“I know, right? Wanna do cake now? Let’s do cake now.” “Hey!” she shouts

to the crowd of people, snapping her ngers. Everyone starts singing.

I’m too drunk to be able to fully make out the blur of gures standing in

front of me singing in a range of keys. Why is “Happy Birthday” the hardest

song ON EARTH to sing, when it’s also the most popular song on earth? What

kind of sick joke is this?

At least cha-cha-cha’s aren’t in style anymore. I’ll take what I can get. The

singing ends and everyone stares at me, waiting for me to blow out the little

ames on the little wax sticks.

This is it. This is why I didn’t want a cake and candles in the rst place. I

didn’t want to have to deal with my birthday wish. At twenty-two, this is the

rst birthday wish I’ll be making where I won’t know what to wish for because

the thing I’ve been wishing for all my life is done. Over. Case closed. The thing

that I secretly hoped through all these years I had some control over, I now know

that I don’t, and never did.

My entire life’s purpose, keeping Mom alive and happy, was for nothing. All

those years I spent focusing on her, all the time I spent orienting my every

thought and action toward what I thought would please her most, were

pointless. Because now she’s gone.

I tried desperately to understand and know my mother—what made her sad,

what made her happy, and on and on and on—at the expense of ever really

knowing myself. Without Mom around, I don’t know what I want. I don’t

know what I need. I don’t know who I am. And I certainly don’t know what to

wish for.

I lean forward and blow out the candles, wishless.

“You’ve gotta try the cake! The buttercream frosting!” Bethany shouts,

already cutting the cake and divvying it up. She hands me the rst slice.

I take a bite and make big “ooh, that’s good” eyes, hoping this satises

Bethany. It seems to. She claps her hands repeatedly and jumps up and down. I

head to the bathroom to throw it up.

67.

I HAVE HOPE. FOR THE rst time in years, I have hope. I’ve been oered the lead

role in a new Netix series—NETFLIX <cue confetti>—and this is no two-

hander, baby. This is all about me. Well, actually it’s an ensemble, but I’m the

lead and, considering the network upgrade, I’ll take it.

Granted, “taking it” wasn’t the easiest of choices. I had expressed early

concerns about the pilot script. The polite term for this in acting is to say, “I

don’t respond to the material,” even if the exact language might be something

more like, “I’m terried this might be trash.” But my agents had urged me to do

the project because the paycheck was pretty good, the only other projects I was

being oered were cheesy sitcom roles and reality shows, and they said it’s worth

it to make the connection with a respectable up-and-coming company like

Netix. This seemed like good logic to me, so I signed the contract.

It’s October 1st when I touch down in Toronto, the cleaner, friendlier New

York City I’ll call home for the next three months of my life. I arrive at my hotel

apartment excited, inspired even. I’m convinced that my life is turning around,

that this new job is exactly the motivation I need to jump-start getting my life on

track.

I’m starring in a real show. No more kids’ shows. Kid show stars can be

messes with all their alcohol abuse and bulimia. But real deals—Netix stars—

aren’t messes. Real deals have their shit together.

So the day I get into Yorkville, the neighborhood in Toronto where I’m

staying, I begin my real-deal endeavor with a trip to the bookstore to pick up a

stack of self-help books. I plow through them in a week and come up with a

solid armation-type mission statement of a plan, a mission statement that I

think sums up the gist of all the self-help knowledge I’ve accumulated over the

past week.

I will focus on myself. I write the phrase in my diary and touch it ve times.

(This is one of my OCD tics that lingers. I also twirl every time I enter my

bathroom, but at least that one’s kinda fun.)

I know focusing on myself won’t be easy. It will take continuous eort, time,

and attention. It will mean working on my issues, facing them head-on instead

of letting them serve as distractions or trying to pretend they’re less than they

are. It will mean doing THE WORK. The soul-scraping introspection it takes to

understand where bad habits and insecurities and self-sabotaging patterns come

from and why, plus the motivation to challenge and change those bad habits and

insecurities and self-sabotaging patterns even as they continue to get triggered

over and over again by various life events.

I am ready to clear everything and everyone out of my life if necessary. I am

ready to focus solely on myself.

Until I meet Steven.

It’s the rst day of shooting. I’m sitting in my trailer, thumbing through the

scripts for episodes two through six when a terrible realization hits me.

I may be a part of Netix’s rst-ever dud. I don’t respond to these scripts

even more than I didn’t respond to the pilot. The budget is lower than expected

—not that there’s anything wrong with a low-budget project, it’s just that that’s

not exactly the type of budget you want for a sprawling postapocalyptic drama

about a small town where a virus breaks out and everyone over twenty-one starts

dying. There hasn’t been a single Netix rep present for any of the welcome-to-

the-show cast and crew pre-parties, which makes no sense to me. There’s always

a network rep present at those things.

I pick up the phone and dial my agents. One of them takes the call, and after I

express my concerns, he explains to me that the reason no Netix rep has been

on set is because this show is a partnership between Netix and a Canadian

network called CityTV. CityTV is the production company, and Netix is just

the distributor.

Oooohhhhh. Oh oh oooohhhhh.

So this isn’t a Netix (cue confetti) show. This is a CityTV (cue… something

else) show.

A part of me wishes I hadn’t asked, that I could still be sitting here naively

thinking I’m on a Netix show. And the other part of me wishes I’d asked

sooner so that I could’ve gotten out of this not-Netix show.

I hang up the phone and sit here in my trailer, looking at my reection in the

mirror. I’m so ashamed of myself. Of my career. I’m aware there are worse things

than starring on television shows you’re not proud of yet the awareness doesn’t

change a thing. This is the truth for me. I am ashamed.

I want to do good work. I want to do work I’m proud of. This matters to me

on a deep, inherent level. I want to make a dierence, or at least feel like I’m

making a dierence through my work. Without that feeling, that connection,

the work feels pointless and vapid. I feel pointless and vapid.

I know that if I make myself throw up right now, my cheeks will swell and my

eyes will get watery and that’s gonna be noticeable on-camera. But I can’t help it.

I need to. The shame that I feel is intolerable. I need my coping mechanism. I

need the depleted feeling I get after a good purge. I jump up from the couch, but

just then, there’s a knock at my door. It’s our production assistant ready to take

me to set. Shit, there’s no time for a purge. I descend the trailer steps and follow

after the PA as we walk toward our rst shot of the day, which takes place

outside in the middle of a snowstorm.

There, through the urry of snowakes and harsh winds, I see him: auburn

hair, soulful green eyes, and charmingly bad posture, wearing chinos and a

puer and a beanie with a pompom at the top of it. He’s leaning against a Star

Wagon trailer, with one foot resting on the tire while he smokes a cigarette—so

edgy. He’s speaking on his iPhone in a combination of broken Italian and

English.

“Aayyyy. Aaayyy. All right. Ti amo. Ciao, Ma.”

He calls his mother on breaks? This boy is too good to be true. He hangs up

his phone and tucks it into his coat pocket. He pulls out a fresh cigarette and

lights it.

“Steven! We’re setting up,” the production assistant calls out to my new love.

So Steven is an assistant director on our shoot. My heart skips a beat. This means

I’ll get to see him every weekday for the next three months.

“ ’Kay,” Steven says plainly, then he heads to set.

I’m already fantasizing about how I’m going to wind up with Steven. The

self-help books said to be exible when goal setting, to be willing to adjust and

tweak accordingly, and my God am I willing to adjust and tweak. I am ready to

abandon my goal of focusing on myself. I don’t want to work on my shame and

humiliation and grief and bulimia and alcohol issues.

Maybe it’s not so bad that I’m on this CityTV show. Maybe it deserves some

confetti after all.

68.

AFTER TWO AND A HALF painstakingly long weeks of “coincidental” crafty run-

ins, Steven invites me on a date.

We grab drinks at a bar called Sassafraz, right up the street from the hotel I’m

staying at. Steven orders a rye and ginger. I order a gin and tonic.

There’s a sweetness to Steven that’s so far from typical nice-guy sweetness,

which is—let’s face it—dull. His sweetness is somehow cool. Maybe it’s his voice

that makes it that way. Oh my God, his voice. It’s my favorite thing about him—

quiet and gravelly, probably from his two packs a day, but that’s ne, we can deal

with the lung cancer later.

Steven has an edge to him that’s somehow balanced out perfectly by how

unassuming he is. I’ve never seen someone so edgy seem so humble, and vice

versa. He’s a walking anomaly. I am taken with him.

For our second date, we go to Jack Astor’s—a chain restaurant in Canada;

think TGI Fridays—and split some nachos and soup. I throw them both up in

the bathroom, refresh with a Listerine strip, and head back into the dining area,

with Steven waving me over. I can’t believe that just weeks ago I was ready to

work on ridding myself of bulimia. It feels like such a part of me, such a staple

habit. I’m relieved to still have it to lean on.

We have a couple of drinks, then go back to my place for a couple more while

we watch stand-up specials on my laptop. There’s an ease and a comfort to our

dynamic. We talk about what we want out of life and what we don’t. What’s

weird about being in our early twenties. Past relationships. Past hurts. Hopes.

Dreams. The good stu! We talk until one in the morning, make out on my

couch for an hour, then keep talking ’til four.

Our third date, we go out dancing (Steven’s idea). I get wasted enough to

completely lose my inhibition. Steven and I dance together. What should feel

impossibly lame feels impossibly magical and it’s all because of Steven. I’ve never

felt this way about a guy before. Even my feelings for Joe—who, up to this point,

I would have considered my rst love—seem so immature, so childish compared

to whatever this is. This is real. This is pure. This is deep. I feel completely

understood and seen by Steven, and he seems to feel the same way.

Our fourth date, we watch The Voice at Steven’s place. His taste in television

shows is… questionable, but I’m happy to watch Christina Aguilera lob canned

compliments at the show’s contestants if it means spending time with Steven.

We nish a bottle of tequila between the two of us and, as we get to the last few

drops, start making out on his couch. He takes o my shirt, then his pants. He

puts on a condom. He’s responsible, too?!

We have sex for the rst time and it’s incredible. The typical commentary that

rattles through my brain during sex is nowhere to be found.

The times I’ve had sex have always felt like a thing that’s happening in the

background of what’s going on in my head. I throw in some moans for good

measure so they can’t tell. But not this time. This time, I’m lost in the moment.

Steven makes me forget myself. I love that.

I start to cry. Steven asks if I’m all right. I tell him the truth. I’m crying

because I’m realizing that this is how sex is supposed to feel. He kisses me harder.

We have sex a few more times. He asks me to sleep over. He says he wants to

never not fall asleep next to me. Christina compliments a young woman wailing

a Whitney Houston number. All is well.

69.

I’M IN MY LIVING ROOM sitting on my overstued couch. Billy’s jackhammering

away upstairs. I’ve been back home in California for three long weeks and the

magical fairy dust of Toronto has settled.

My xation on Steven had curbed my anxieties about the quality of the non-

Netix show and the overall state of myself, but now, without Steven in close

proximity, the anxieties are back.

Will this show end my career? Or worse, will it explode into another

embarrassing phenomonen that eclipses my identity?

What is my identity, even? What the fuck is that? How would I know? I’ve

pretended to be other people my whole life, my whole childhood and

adolescence and young adulthood. The years that you’re supposed to spend

nding yourself, I was spending pretending to be other people. The years that

you’re supposed to spend building character, I was spending building

characters.

I’m more convinced than ever that I need to quit acting. That it doesn’t serve

my mental or emotional health. That it’s been destructive to both. I think about

what else has been destructive to my mental and emotional health… the eating

disorders, of course, and the alcohol issues.

And then I realize that, as much as I’m convinced that I need to quit these

things—acting, bulimia, alcohol—I don’t think that I can. As much as I resent

them, in a strange way they dene me. They are my identity. Maybe that’s why I

resent them.

The stress of the realization draws me to the toilet, just like any stress does. I

purge. By the time I get back to my couch spot, I see a missed call from Steven.

Steven and I became ocial the day I left Toronto and my God was I relieved.

I was terried of our relationship being nothing more than a blip. A ing.

Something to pass the time that would have otherwise been spent bored in a

workplace. That would mean I misread, misinterpreted. Was foolish. I was

convinced there was something real between us, but I needed the label to back

me up, support my reality.

The morning my ight was set to take o, Steven woke me up with a love

letter asking me to be his “woman.” Leaving him was true agony. The moment

of getting into my cab and saying goodbye was one of the most intense feelings

I’ve ever felt in my life—shaky, terried, passionate, and powerless. I had no idea

where the future would take us, especially with us being long distance. It’s

possible that the past few months have just been a fantasy, a delusion. Maybe

Steven will go back to his life, and I’ll go back to mine, and we’ll just fall into our

usual old patterns and slowly forget about each other, even with a label.

That’s why now, when Steven’s calling me, I’m relieved. I know what this call

means. Last night while we were on our nightly three-hour FaceTime, he

mentioned he was going to look at ights to LA and call me in the morning if he

was able to get on one last-minute because we couldn’t stand being apart from

each other any longer. This call means he was able to get on one. This call means

Steven is coming out to visit me… today. This call means our relationship wasn’t

a ing.

Steven’s plane lands. He only packed a carry-on since he’s only staying for a

couple days, so he’s in his Uber quickly and we text back and forth his whole

ride over. I cannot wait. I kick Billy out. He leaves his tools everywhere. (WHEN

will this guy be done with his refurbishments? It’s been over a year.)

There’s a knock at my door. I let Steven in. It’s wild to see him in person after

only seeing him through a phone screen for three weeks. We’re timid at rst. The

conversation is slow. I’m terried. Is this LA us? Was magical us Toronto Us and

LA Us is whatever this is?

Finally, after the longest three minutes of my life, Steven grabs me into a hug

and we start making out. He takes o my clothes and I take o his and he takes a

condom out of his pocket (of course he does) and pulls it on and wields his

condom-clad penis toward me and I am enthralled. We fuck three times on the

couch and afterward we start talking and everything feels back to normal. Easy.

Comfortable. The awkwardness was just the sexual tension. Yay.

After an hour of cuddling and chatting, Steven goes to the bathroom to pee.

He walks back into the room slowly and with a concerned look on his face. He

stops in the archway of the living room, keeping his distance from me. He seems

guarded. He doesn’t say anything.

“What?” I nally ask.

“Jenny…” Steven says worriedly.

“What?” I ask again, more concerned than before. “You’re freaking me out.

What’s going on?”

“It’s just…” Steven looks down and scus his socks against the hard cherry

wood oors. I have no idea what Steven is about to say, and his hesitance is

nerve-wracking to me. I just want him to get it out.

“Do you have a problem?” he nally asks.

“A problem?” I ask.

“Yes. A problem.”

“I’m not sure what you mean…”

“There’s vomit residue on the toilet seat.”

“Ooooh, that’s it?” I ask, trying to play it o casually. “Well, I wouldn’t really

consider it a problem, it’s more of just a… thing I do.”

He’s not buying it.

“You know, like how you smoke.” I try to level with him. “You smoke

cigarettes, and I make myself throw up. They’re just things we do.”

“No, they’re dierent,” Steven assures me. “Bulimia can kill you.”

“So can cigarettes.”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna stop.”

“Right. So am I.”

Steven sighs.

“I really just want you to be okay and healthy, Jenny.”

“Well I mostly am.”

“But you’re not.”

“But I mostly am.”

He gives me a long, hard look. He’s never looked at me like this before. It’s

pitying and parental. I don’t like it, but there’s something to the depth of it that

makes me realize he’s not going to budge. I’m not going to be able to convince

him.

“Look, Jenny, you need to get help for this or I… I can’t be with you. I can’t

watch you do this to yourself.”

I’m taken aback. Really?

His eyes answer back. Really.

Well, shit.

70.

I’M SITTING IN LAURA’S CENTURY City oce. It’s my rst time in a therapist’s

waiting room and not at all what I expected. Aren’t these places supposed to be

clinical? This room is anything but. It’s cozy and inviting. Granted, Laura is a

therapist–slash–life coach, so maybe therapists that are multi-hyphenates do

more decorating. I’m skeptical.

There’s a turquoise crocheted pouf in one corner next to a bookcase lled

with rows of self-help books. I’m sitting in an orange chair with a cream knit

blanket folded over the back of it. “Boho chic.” Maybe I would’ve known this if

I’d read the Yelp reviews, but as soon as I saw those ve stars, I booked an

appointment and never looked back. Plus, who wants to read a review from

someone who takes the time to write a review? Can’t trust ’em, too much time

on their hands.

I’m in the middle of stroking the soft blanket draped over me and planning

my opener. I wanna start this thing on a light note. I don’t want to be another

sad sack who plops down in a therapist’s chair and whines about their troubles

while the poor therapist regrets their degree. Laura comes out to greet me.

“Jennette?” she asks, even though I’m the only one sitting in this waiting

room and the only one with an appointment scheduled for this time.

I humor her. “Laura?”

She smiles big, revealing one of the more beautiful smiles I’ve ever seen. Laura

must be using Whitestrips too.

“Hi!” She moves toward me in a way that can best be described as a oat. I’m

not sure whether she oats because of her oral prairie skirt that ows across the

ground with every step she takes toward me, or whether she oats because that’s

just who she is. I’m intrigued by her.

She pulls me into a hug. I’m typically not a hugger, but there’s something

about Laura’s warmth and immediate trustworthiness that causes me to

surrender to her embrace. She smells like fresh laundry. I take a whi, hoping it’s

discreet. Gimme that Snuggle sheet scent, Laura.

Laura pulls away and holds on to both of my forearms while looking me in

the eye, intimately. Everything about my interaction with Laura so far would

typically put me on the defensive, if Laura were anyone else. But Laura is Laura.

The regular rules don’t apply here.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” she asks with, I swear to God, a twinkle in her

eye. Yes, we shall, Laura. We. Shall.

I sit down opposite Laura in her little oce, which aesthetically resembles her

waiting room. My opener’s gone after being so disarmed by her.

She asks me what brings me in, and I tell her about the Steven ultimatum,

and how I love him and want things to work out between us, so I agreed to come

here.

“All right, well that’s ne. But therapy is a thing we have to decide to do. We

have to want to change, not for someone else, but for ourselves.” Laura takes a

long sip of tea. “So Jennette, do you want to change?”

“Yeah,” I say, knowing that even though there’s more nuance to it than this,

this is what I should say. It’s almost like Laura is the casting director and I’m the

child actor, trying to say exactly the thing that will earn me a callback. Yes, I can

swim. Yes, I can pogo stick. Yes, I want to change.

“Okay, good,” Laura says.

Laura asks me what I’m currently struggling with in life, why exactly Steven

suggested I come here, and I dive right in—Mom’s death, bulimia, alcohol issues,

the works. I try to give her the succinct elevator-pitch version. I gure we’ve got

more sessions to unpack the specics.

In her buttery voice, Laura gives me a rundown of how we’re going to work.

“I take a holistic approach to recovery, so our sessions will incorporate a lot of

variety. Today we’ll focus on a life wheel so that we can gauge where you’re

starting out and use this as a benchmark to track your progress over time.”

I nod along. No idea what a life wheel is, Laura, but let’s get it spinnin’.

“Over the next four months, we’ll go grocery shopping, cook together,

discover your hobbies and passions through experimentation, read a stack of

eating-disorder-specic books and take notes on what does and doesn’t resonate

with you, and explore balanced and non-obsessive physical activity options

together.” (My eating disorder translates into exercise as well. I run a half-

marathon twice a week and ve to ten miles every other day.)

All of this sounds well and good to me, especially since Laura will be by my

side through it all, and I’ll lose Steven if I don’t. Where’s the dotted line, baby?

Sign me up. I’m ready to change.

71.

I CATCH A WHIFF OF BURNING toast and dog piss—the unmistakable smell of my

spray tan. I wonder if Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson caught a whi of it too.

Even if he can smell it, he doesn’t let on. Bless him.

I’m standing backstage at some Teen Choice People’s Choice Fan Favorite

award show—they all blur together—waiting for the commercial break to end

and my segment to begin. I’m wearing overpriced heels with straps that dig into

my ankles and a two-piece turquoise oral set, even though I don’t like oral

patterns. This is the outt that was approved by the network, so this is what I’m

wearing.

The Netix show hasn’t yet been released, so I’m still only known for

Nickelodeon stu. They’re still airing new episodes of Sam & Cat, so I’m still

on the cover of all the tween magazines with a sassy hand on my hip and a bright

smile on my face, portraying the image of a carefree starlet with the world on a

string. Tee-hee.

Even though I’ve been seeing Laura for a month, I feel worse o than I did

when I initially sat in her tufted chair. Firstly, because Steven, who is the reason I

sat down in Laura’s tufted chair in the rst place, is out of town working on a

show that shoots in Atlanta, so I’m unable to lean on him for support. And

secondly, because now I’m aware of just how bleak things are. I’m no longer able

to remain in denial about how much of a problem my alcohol consumption is (a

big one) and my bulimia is (a bigger one). I’m no longer in denial about the

extent of my grief over Mom’s passing (insurmountable).

The rst three weeks of my program with Laura were all about gauging

exactly where I’m at by collecting info. And so far, I don’t like the info we’ve

collected.

I’m binging and purging ve to ten times a day and drinking at least eight or

nine shots of hard liquor a night. The rst three weeks with Laura have shown

me just how dark my situation is, just how much of a failure I’ve become.

But now we’re on week four of our ve-sessions-a-week schedule. And week

four is the rst week where, instead of just assessing how pathetic my day-to-day

life really is, Laura starts to help me toward change. We’ve already identied my

main binge, purge, and alcohol triggers, and RED CARPET EVENTS came in

near the top of the list in all caps—not only because of the stress and nature of

the events themselves, but because red carpet events inevitably come with lots…

and lots… of food. And lots and lots of food means lots and lots of opportunities

to binge and/or purge. Because of this, Laura and I decided that, for the next few

months, Laura will be my plus-one to all these events so she can monitor my

behavior and serve as emotional/mental support.

The lights are low. I can see the crowd. Laura’s sitting in the front row. I make

eye contact with her. Laura smiles and starts to mouth, You’ve got this, but just as

she gets to the th in “this,” a mother trying to corral her eet of young children

scuttles past her. Laura makes an “excuse you” face until she realizes that the

mother is Angelina Jolie. “Excuse you” face turns into “oh, you go right on

ahead you glorious angel” face.

I try to meet Laura’s eyes again, even for a quick second, before the lights

come back on. I’m desperate for her support. I’m sure that I’m penetrating her

soul with my desperation, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve lost her to Angelina. Not

that I can blame Laura. I get it.

The camera operator, Chip—I don’t actually know his name, but there’s a 90

percent chance that any given camera operator’s name is Chip—starts giving me

the ve-nger countdown. I swallow my nerves.

The lights shock me when they come on. It doesn’t matter how many

random tween/teen/kid awards shows I participate in, I never get used to the

lights. They are blinding, and I’m amazed how more people onstage giving or

accepting awards for things that don’t matter don’t squint while they’re up here.

I start talking, saying whatever’s on the prompter, with a big smile and my

“fun” voice. I notice my hands are doing a lot of big gestures, but I can’t seem to

control them. The whole thing is an out-of-body experience.

Nick Jonas waltzes out and accepts an award, and the lights are o again. I

gasp for air like somebody coming up from holding their breath underwater for

too long. I look down at my hands. I can’t see them because my eyes haven’t yet

adjusted to the lights being o, but I don’t need to see them to know that they’re

shaking.

I’m approached by a security guard who carries himself like a man who takes

his wings extra spicy just to prove a point. As I’m escorted to the backstage area,

I feel little heat streams running down my cheeks. Shit. Tears.

Finally, when we get to the dingy backstage tunnel with uorescent lighting, I

can get a good look at my hands. They’re shaking and clenched in little sti balls.

I don’t need any more evidence than this. I’m having a panic attack. And I know

exactly why I’m having one.

I haven’t thrown up all day. Laura only agreed to be my plus-one if I would

agree to meet up with her ahead of the event so that we could eat lunch together.

Laura knew that my instinct would be to starve myself before the award show,

which could then lead to a binge and purge later.

She ordered a healthy lunch for us and sat there patiently while I picked at my

food like a tantrum-y three-year-old.

“I know you don’t want to, but you need to eat. You can’t go do something

like this without having some food in your stomach.”

We sat there for nearly an hour, my food untouched, when the car pulled up

to take us to the event. I pushed my seat back and stood up until Laura gave me

“no way” eyes. I knew she wasn’t getting in that Cadillac Escalade until I

followed through on my end of the bargain. I forced a few bites into my mouth,

Laura encouraged me to take a few more, and we were o.

The ride over to the pavilion was hell. I couldn’t focus on anything except for

the shame I felt about how much food I had consumed, the calories in that food,

and the fact that I couldn’t rid myself of it. All I wanted was a toilet, and all I got

was forty-ve minutes in LA trac with some adult contemporary slow jams on

the radio. (Laura’s taste in music is questionable.)

“Um, you okay, ma’am?”

Not now, Spicy Wings. I’m in the middle of a discreet breakdown. I mutter

some half-word response, wipe my eyes, and push open the door to the

backstage area. The rst thing I see is, of course, the buet table. The inevitable

backstage buet table, piled with crudite, olives, mini sausages, shrimp cocktails,

mini grilled-cheese sandwiches, popcorn chicken, and cheeseburger sliders.

FUUUUCK. Cheeseburger fucking sliders. I’m dying to cram some meaty,

cheesy sliders into my mouth and then throw them up in the bathroom. The act

of purging gives me a rush of adrenaline and it’s so physically exhausting that I

hardly have space for anxiety after I’m nished. I need the x.

But I know I shouldn’t. That’s why Laura’s here. Laura! That’s what I need. I

need Laura. Where is Laura?

I frantically scan the room. Manny from Modern Family chats with Sheldon

from The Big Bang Theory. Fergie talks to Kristen Stewart, who stands in the

corner biting her nails. At the other end of the room I spot Laura, beaming as

she compliments Adam Sandler. It’s clear she has a crush on him. Who doesn’t?

Shirtless Adam Sandler in the “shampoo is better” scene from Billy Madison

was true porn for me as a child.

I’m torn. Do I interrupt Laura’s engaging discussion with America’s Favorite

Goofball–slash–Occasional Indie Darling to tell her I’m in the middle of a panic

attack? Or do I rush over to the buet table and stu my face with a slew of

snacks, then go throw them up in the bathroom? Do I get my x?

I beeline for the buet table and don’t even grab a plate. I double-st some

cheeseburger sliders and start shoving them into my mouth. I turn my back so

no one can see what I’m doing. I take bite after bite. I’m done with the rst

slider and halfway through the second one when I hear…

“I think it’s great that you’re eating. I would love it if you could slow down a

little bit, though. And I want to make sure we step away to a private area

afterward so that you can process your emotions without purging. How does

that sound?”

My heart sinks. My cheeseburger slider does too. I feel it like a rock in my

stomach. I know Laura means well, but in this moment I hate her. I hate that

she’s disrupting my ability to purge.

“You know what? Why don’t we just head out now?” Laura suggests. She

must have spotted the dried tear tracks on my cheeks, or my clenched hands, or

she might just have such a good read on me that she knows how devastated I’ll

be at having to keep down the sliders.

We pile into the car and immediately, I start to sob. The panic attack is in full

force. It feels like death.

“NOOOOO! NOT THE SLIDERS!! WHY DID I EAT THE FUCKING

SLIIIIIIDERS!!!” I wail.

“I know, baby,” Laura says aectionately. She strokes my hair. “You’re doing

great. You’re doing great.”

Really? It doesn’t feel like I’m doing “great.” It feels like I’m in the middle of

a full-edged breakdown after white-knuckling my way through three

teleprompter lines and not being able to cope with eating two Rich People’s

White Castles. Laura assures me it’s normal to have these types of reactions after

not purging, since my body’s been so used to the habit for so long and the habit

has been a source of emotional suppression for me. But it doesn’t feel normal.

My reaction feels humiliating but impossible to curtail.

I continue wailing. The driver looks ahead blankly. If this guy’s not reacting

to a hysterical bulimic who’s getting orange spray tan on his freshly polished

leather seats, I hate to think what else he’s witnessed in the back of his Cadillac.

“Can you ip the radio to KOST 103.5?” Laura asks politely.

The driver switches the radio. Gloria Estefan starts singing “Rhythm is

Gonna Get You.”

“Mom used to loooove Gloria Estefannnnnn!” I sob, collapsing into Laura’s

lap. I notice her toe tapping. The rhythm did in fact get her.

“Jennette…” Laura says, pausing to rub her lips together, which she does

every time she feels like she’s about to say something important. “This is what

recovery looks like.”

One of the more excruciating emotional disconnects for me is when someone

says something they think is poignant and I receive it as complete bullshit. This

is one of those disconnects. To make the disconnect even worse, Laura SHUTS

HER EYES and repeats herself.

“This…”

NO Laura, please don’t give me that dramatic pause for emphasis. DO NOT

give me that dramati—

“… is what recovery looks like.”

72.

I SIT DOWN IN THE tufted chair opposite Laura and let out a sigh. But not like a

heavy sigh, more one of those sighs that come out when you’ve just

accomplished a task that you’re both glad to be done with and also desperately

want to brag about having done.

I nally made it happen. I’ve gone a full twenty-four hours without making

myself throw up. Maybe it doesn’t sound that impressive, but it is for me. It’s

been three years that I’ve been binging and purging every day, many times a day.

I have felt controlled by this eating disorder. Even since beginning my work with

Laura, I haven’t gone a full day without making myself throw up. I’ll struggle

through our sessions, and then as soon as I’m back home, I’ll purge until I’ve

fully relieved myself of the pent-up emotional turmoil that’s accumulated since

my last one. I’ll visit Laura the next day and regretfully inform her of my failings.

Then we start over and we try again. The pattern has proven grueling, and the

disappointment in myself has proven overwhelming. But now, I nally made it

happen.

Since our session yesterday morning, I have not purged once. My sigh is the

sigh of a fucking winner, and Laura can tell. With the hint of a smile, she asks if I

have something to share. I tell her the good news. She claps, then asks how I was

able to do it, how I managed.

That’s when my pride starts to fade. It was really hard, and I’m not convinced

I’ll be able to do it again. To not throw up for twenty-four hours, I’ve been

journaling near constantly to get my feelings on paper, which is a challenging

task since I struggle to identify my emotions. Is “all of the uncomfortable ones”

an option? I’ve had a few bouts of sobbing and I called Laura three times last

night, since she opened up that line of communication in an eort to help me

make some tangible progress.

The task of FEELING this confusing, overwhelming blob of emotions

instead of distracting myself with bulimia is daunting. Bulimia helps me to rid

myself of these emotions even if it is a temporary, unsustainable x. Facing these

emotions feels impossible. If I can’t even clearly identify them, how will I

possibly be able to tolerate them?

I express my fears to Laura, and she assures me it will be a step-by-step

process. It will take time. But we will get there, together. I feel comforted. Then

she explains to me that now that I’ve experienced what it’s like to not make

myself throw up for a day, now that I know I can do it, we need to delve deeper.

While this experience was meant to serve as motivation for me, we can’t just treat

the problem and not the cause. In order to get to what’s underneath the bulimia,

what’s driving it, we need to unpack my life in a more comprehensive way.

“Okay…” I’m hesitant. What will this entail? I hate the uncertainty.

“I want to understand more about Little Jennette,” Laura says tenderly. “I

understand you felt a lot of pressure, that you had a lot of responsibility at an

early age. But I want to get into some specics.”

Always with the childhood, these therapists. I’ve seen enough movies and TV

shows to know that this is the classic therapeutic scapegoat. Some shit happened

in your childhood, it messed you up, that’s why you are the way you are.

But not me. I didn’t have an alcoholic dad, my brothers didn’t torture me

when my parents weren’t home. We were poor, sure, and lived in a hoarder

house, yes, and Mom had cancer when I was very little, which was very scary. But

otherwise things were ne. I relay this to Laura, gently suggesting in my tone

that I refuse to play the game of boohoo-my-childhood-was-wu.

“Okay,” Laura says with a glint of a knowing smile that irritates me deeply for

some reason. This irritation confuses me. I’m typically so fond of Laura.

“Tell me about your mom. Tell me about your relationship with her when

you were a kid.”

Immediately I’m defensive. Why does she want me to talk about Mom?

What’s wrong with Mom? Nothing’s wrong with Mom. Mom was perfect. I

know in my gut that I don’t believe this, that it’s a lot more complicated than

this, but why on earth would I tell Laura the specics? I’ve never told anyone the

specics and I never will. I don’t even fully understand them. And I don’t want

to. I don’t need to.

“Mom was wonderful. She was honestly, like, the perfect mom.”

“Oh yeah? What was so perfect?”

I throw on my best fake smile. Laura’s sharp. I’m sure she can see right

through most of her clients. But not me. I didn’t star on shitty sitcoms for a

decade and not learn how to sell a line I don’t believe in.

“Just everything, to be honest. She took care of me and my brothers, I’m sure

that was really hard for her.”

“That was her job.”

I feel interrogated, like I can’t say the right thing. I speed up, trying to explain

myself.

“Well, but I mean this was dierent from most parents.” Shit. I hated how

that came out.

“How so?”

I pause to compose myself. Laura won’t rattle me. I speak in an even,

measured tone.

“She sacriced everything for me. She constantly went without so she could

take care of me. She put me rst, ahead of herself.”

“Hmm. And do you think that’s healthy?”

What kind of fresh hell is this? What is this impossible-to-ace quiz? I have no

idea how I’m supposed to be answering to make Mom look good.

“Well, I mean, I put her rst too, so that kind of balanced it out. We balanced

each other… putting each other… rst… out.”

Laura holds a look at me. An unreadable look. She says nothing. The silence

is deafening.

“We were best friends,” I clarify.

“Oh? Did your mom have any friends her own age as well, or was her main

friendship the one she had with you?”

What do you want from me, Laura?! I squirm in my seat.

“Are you comfortab—”

“I’m extremely comfortable.”

“Did your mom have any friends her own—”

“Yeah, no I heard the question,” I say in bitch-voice.

Laura looks slightly startled. I feel sorry. Her tone this entire time has been a

gently curious one, even though I’ve been treating it like a personal attack.

Maybe she doesn’t mean anything by her questions. Maybe this is all harmless.

“Sorry.”

“It’s absolutely ne.”

Couldn’t it have just been ne, Laura? Did it have to be “absolutely” ne?

Why is she bugging me like this, I wonder. I smile at her, tenser than I’d like. She

smiles back, softer than I’d like.

“So…” she starts.

“She had acquaintances, yes. She always said she didn’t really have time for

friends.” Before Laura can sidle in with another question, I get ahead of it.

“Which makes sense to me because she was really busy taking me to auditions

and to set and everything.”

“Ah, yes.” Laura nods a wistful nod. “So when did you rst want to start

acting?”

I know a trick question when I hear one.

“Actually, Mom wanted me to start acting because she wanted me to have a

better life than she had.”

“Oh, so you didn’t want to start acting? Your mom wanted you to start?”

“Yes,” I say with a little more heat on it than I would’ve liked. “Because she

wanted me to have a better life than she had. It was very kind and generous of

her.”

“Okay.”

“It was.”

“I understand.”

Beat.

“Can you tell me the rst time you were aware of your weight or your body in

a…” Laura pauses to nd the right words. “… signicant way?”

This one I don’t want to answer but I feel like if I wiggle around it Laura will

just come right back for the jugular with her follow up. I tread with caution.

“Well… when I was eleven I was concerned about getting boobs, so Mom

taught me about calorie restriction to help me out.”

“To help you out?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean, to help you out?”

“Well, I was concerned about getting boobs.”

“Right. But how does your mom teaching you about calorie restriction help

you out?”

“Because watching my calories meant I could delay adulthood.”

Laura holds another of her trademark unreadable stares at me. Even though I

can’t gauge the specics, I can tell there’s a lot of speculation going on. I feel the

need to add more.

“Plus for acting. I always played characters younger than me, so if I wanted to

keep booking, looking younger was important. By teaching me calorie

restriction, she was helping to ensure my success.”

I give a little nod to punctuate my statement. I’m hoping that moved the dial

on Laura’s judgment, but after a few seconds I can tell it didn’t.

“Jennette, what you’re describing is… really unhealthy. Your mother

essentially condoned your anorexia, encouraged it. She… taught it to you. That’s

abuse.”

My mind ashes back to the rst time I heard the word “anorexia,” when I

was sitting on the paper-covered table in room 5 at Dr. Tran’s oce. Suddenly I

feel just like that little eleven-year-old girl who was confused and scared and

uncertain. That eleven-year-old girl who was doubtful that I knew the whole

truth of my situation, who was unsure that my mother was the hero she

pretended to be, but who shoved that doubt down.

I feel tears welling in my eyes. I’m embarrassed. I’m well-trained in crying and

not crying on cue, so I resort to my usual tricks—gritting my teeth to distract

from the tears and blinking a few times rapidly to try to churn them away.

“It’s okay to let it out.” Laura leans forward.

SHUT THE FUCK UP, LAURA. I can’t take this anymore. I get one day of

not throwing up under my belt and now we’re trying to dethrone my mother

and demolish the narrative of her that I’ve clung to my entire life?

“I have to go,” I say quickly as I stand up and start to leave.

“Wait, Jennette, this is good work. Important work.”

“I’ve gotta go,” I repeat over my shoulder as I pull open the door and speed

out as quickly as I can.

Tears fall down my cheeks while I drive home, trying desperately to process

everything. Laura suggested that Mom was abusive. My whole life, my entire

existence has been oriented to the narrative that Mom wants what’s best for me,

Mom does what’s best for me, Mom knows what’s best for me. Even in the past,

when resentments started to creep in or wedges started to come between us, I

have checked those resentments and wedges, I have curbed them so that I can

move forward with this narrative intact, this narrative that feels essential to my

survival.

If Mom really didn’t want what was best for me, or do what was best for me,

or know what was best for me, that means my entire life, my entire point of view,

and my entire identity have been built on a false foundation. And if my entire

life and point of view and identity have been built on a false foundation,

confronting that false foundation would mean destroying it and rebuilding a

new foundation from the ground up. I have no idea how to go about doing this.

I have no idea how to go about life without doing it in the shadow of my

mother, without my every move being dictated by her wants, her needs, her

approval.

I pull up to my lonely house and sit in my car with the engine running. I pull

out my phone and draft an email to Laura.

Laura, thanks for all your help this past month, but I will no longer be

attending therapy. Thank you, Jennette.

My nger hovers over the send button for a few seconds before I tap it

abruptly and click o my phone. I rush up my front steps and, once I’m inside,

run to the bathroom. I make myself throw up repeatedly. I jam my ngers down

my throat harder and harder and harder until I cough. Some blood comes up. I

keep going. Vomit streaked with blood pours out of my mouth and into the

bowl. It slides down my arm. Chunks of it get in my hair. I keep going. I need

this.

I take a bath afterward, attempting to relax. By the time I get out, my body

feels achy and feverish, the same way it feels after every purge.

I crawl into bed with my sore, tired body and curl into a ball. I swipe open my

phone. Three missed calls from Laura and one voicemail. I delete Laura’s

number. I guess I won’t have a plus-one for my next event.

73.

I’M STANDING BY THE DOOR, running my hands along my pants anxiously as

Steven’s taxi pulls up in front of my house. Steven got a project out here in LA

—a six-month project—and he’ll be staying at my place the entire time. We are

living together. This is huge. And that part’s great, it really is.

The part that isn’t great, however, is the part where I have to tell Steven that

I’ve quit therapy. I have no idea what his reaction will be, but I’m sure it won’t

be good since he’s the one who instigated it in the rst place.

He opens the cab door and spills out of it in his crewneck sweater and chinos.

The cab peels away as Steven bounds up the steps with his canvas bag and rolling

carry-on. He’s got more energy than usual. Steven is not typically a bounder.

Steven is typically a saunterer, a wanderer, a sidler. I gure the extra energy must

be from how excited he is to see me, which compounds the guilt I already feel

about telling him the news. Once he gets through the front door, he scoops me

up into a big squeeze.

“ ‘Jenny, Jenny bo Benny Banana fanna fo Fenny Fee fy mo Menny, Jenny!’ ” He

sings while he ings me around.

I start to do the jingle back but bail halfway through because… it’s a lot.

Steven sets me down and I brace myself for what I’m about to do. I’m gonna tell

him. I’m gonna do it.

“Steven…”

Before the words can come out of my mouth, Steven starts talking a mile a

minute about how excited he is—but not about being in LA, not about the

project he’ll be working on, not about us living together. None of the things I

expect him to be excited about. Steven says he is excited… to take me to church.

Church? I haven’t been in a church since Mom’s funeral, and I didn’t plan

on going back to one anytime soon (ever). I know Steven grew up Catholic, but

supposedly his family never even went to service. I didn’t think religion carried

any sort of signicant weight to him even in his youth, let alone nowadays. I’m

confused. Steven explains.

“I don’t know, I just feel like there’s more to life. More depth, more

meaning.”

I don’t understand the connection. How does Steven expect to achieve more

depth through Catholicism? I don’t want to tear him down while he’s so lit up,

so I throw on my best gentle tone and remind him of our early dating

conversations, where he seemed to agree with me that religion is a thing that

stunts growth, not a thing that promotes it.

“Right.” He nods. “But I completely disagree with that now.” Okaaaay. I ask

him to elaborate.

“Well, I saw God’s Not Dead on Netix, and it really resonated with me. I just

think there’s a lot of truth to it, Jenny. A whole lot of truth. And I want us to try

going to church. I want us to try nding some kind of religion.”

“Hang on. You saw a shitty Christian movie on Netix and now you want to

abandon your whole life philosophy for Jesus?”

My tone hurts Steven; I can see it in his eyes. There’s a moment of silence. I

start to wonder if Steven’s okay. He doesn’t seem like himself. Then again, we’re

only a few months into our still very-new relationship. Maybe this shift is the

natural shift that occurs when the honeymoon phase is over. Maybe this is who

he truly is.

“Steven, I… quit therapy.”

I can’t believe the words just spilled out of my mouth like that, the words I

was so nervous to say ten minutes ago. Maybe I just said them to say something,

to ll the dead air. Or maybe I said them to take the focus away from church.

Regardless of why, I said them and now they’re out in the open. I wait for

Steven’s reaction. He stops rummaging through his bag to look at me.

“That’s ne.”

Really? It’s ne? I can’t believe it. This feels too good to be true. He opens his

mouth to say more.

“You don’t need therapy. Not if you have Jesus.”

74.

STEVEN AND I ARE SITTING in one of the back pews of a Southern Baptist church

in Glendale while a choir wails on a hymn. The hymn itself is whatever, but

some of these women are downright stars.

Despite the talent of the choir, I’m sitting here with my eyes drooped half

shut. This is the fourth church service Steven and I have gone to in a week. I

didn’t even resist it. I’ve just been grateful that he’s not forcing therapy on me.

Humoring what I imagine will be a very short-lived phase for Steven feels like a

low price to pay in exchange for never having to see Laura or any other therapist

hell-bent on ripping my narrative of Mom to shreds.

First we went to a Catholic church service, which Steven said didn’t feel right

to him. Then we went to a nondenominational service in Hollywood, which

Steven felt was too Hollywood. Then we went to the Scientology center, which

Steven was wary of from the get-go but wanted to try just in case. It’s the

Goldilocks and the Three Bears of churches, only GoldiSteven didn’t nd one

that was “juuust right” in the rst three, so now we’re at church number four.

Steven seems genuinely engaged. He nods his head along with the sermon.

He opens his notes tab in his iPhone to jot down scripture verses. He lifts his

arms in praise during the hymns. Finally the service lets out. Hallelujah. This is

the closest I’ve gotten to believing in God all day.

By the time we get home I’m ready for a glass of wine mixed with vodka,

same as I’ve been doing for the past few months. Steven is going on about the

service. I’m checked out until he says…

“And Jenny… I’ve prayed about it and I don’t think we should have sex

anymore. I’m taking a vow of celibacy.”

“I’m… sorry? Excuse me?”

“Yeah, I just… don’t think we should be sinning like that anymore.”

My ngers clench into a death grip on my wineglass. Steven goes on.

“I prayed about it, and I really don’t think we should be having sex anymore.

It’s a sin. I hope you’re okay with that.”

I’m… not. Our sex is the best sex I’ve had. I wouldn’t want to give that up

even if my life was soaring in all the other areas. But it isn’t. My life is miserable

right now. Sex is a reprieve. It’s where I lose myself. I do not want to give up this

shred of silver lining in my life.

“What if I’m not?” I nally choke out.

I gulp the last of my winodka down and set my glass on the table as

seductively as I can manage, letting my ngers linger on the rim of the glass just

so. Fucking Marion Cotillard over here, don’t mind me. I lean over and start

kissing Steven. He kisses me back, tentatively at rst, and then passionately. Got

him.

Pretty soon my hand’s on his dick. It’s hard. Real hard.

“Look how hard you are for me,” I whisper in his ear.

“Jenny, stop,” Steven says, his face ushed.

“You want me to stop?” I say in my best dirty-talking voice, which lands

somewhere between curious toddler and whiney tween but still seems to work.

I’m amazed at what a little horniness will forgive. I start to pull my hand away.

“No… no. Don’t stop.” Steven takes my hand and places it back on his dick. I

unzip his pants, pull them o, and lean over to start giving Steven the blow job

of a lifetime. I’m pulling out all the stops. I am living, I am giving, I am working

it. There are blow jobs, and then there is this blow job. I’m sucking, I’m

stroking, I’m whispering, I’m licking, I’m caressing, I’m giving it 150,000

percent. He cums in my mouth.

I pop up, proud and expectant, sure that Steven is going to announce that it

will be impossible for him to not have sex with me. That he wants to, NEEDS to

have it with me every second of every day. I’m just about to swallow with as

much seduction as I can muster, when Steven starts to stroke his chin.

“Yeah, that didn’t feel right, Jenny. We can’t do that again. We really can’t do

that again.”

There is such nality in Steven’s eyes that I know I’m getting nowhere near

that dick for the foreseeable future. The cum slides out of my mouth and down

my chin. It dribbles onto my lap. Dead in the eyes, I stare at him. What have I

done?

75.

“SO WAS THERE EVER A good phase of your relationship with Mom, or was it

always… how I remember it?”

I’m familiar with Mom’s side of the story, that Dad was “probably cheating”

or “didn’t do enough for the family” or whatever the qualm of the day was.

“Your father is lazy and incompetent, no other way to slice it. He’s a distant man

with the emotional range of a potato.”

As for how I remember it, I remember a few good things. I remember loving

the way that Dad’s annels smelled—pinewood with a dab of fresh paint.

Sometimes I would sleep in them for comfort. I remember him teaching me how

to tie my baby-pink Winnie the Pooh shoes bunny-ears-style while I sat in a

shopping cart in Sam’s Club and Mom complained about how expensive toilet

paper had gotten. I remember him inviting me to his work Christmas party at

Home Depot. I couldn’t believe he had chosen me to go to the party with him.

Me! I didn’t have to believe it for long because I quickly discovered it was Mom

who wanted me to go with him, to collect intel on which co-workers he might

potentially be having an aair with. “Don’t rule out Don. I’ve always wondered

if your father’s secretly gay. Something about the way he sits, the way he crosses

his legs.” Regardless, I had a fun time at the party. There were red-and-green

chion curtains hanging from the walls. Unsold Christmas trees lined the room.

I learned how to play blackjack. I really felt loved by Dad that day.

But otherwise, the memories were less than fantastic. Mostly I remember

Dad not being present. Seeming uninterested. I remember him trying to read

Stan the Hot Dog Man to me and Scottie every night for what must have been a

three- or four-week stretch until eventually we gave up on him reading it because

he couldn’t get through the children’s book without falling asleep. I remember

him forgetting dance recitals and falling asleep during the family watch parties

Mom would have for my TV performances. I remember The Great Pornography

Debacle of ’03. Mom caught Dad watching pornography—a major sin in

Mormonism—and kicked him out of the house again, that time for a month.

She insisted that I call him by his rst name—“Mark”—after that. I did until she

died.

Now, as I sit here opposite Dad and his new girlfriend, I’m not looking for

Mom’s side, and I’m not looking for how I remember things. I’m looking for

Dad’s side.

“You know, it was so long ago I hardly even remember,” Dad nally answers,

after a ten-second pause. He looks over to his girlfriend for approval.

Dad’s girlfriend is Karen, Mom’s high school best friend who stole her baby

name. As I study Karen from across the room, I realize Mom tried to do her

makeup like Karen does hers. Or maybe Karen tries to do her makeup like Mom

did hers. I can’t tell, but either way it makes me uncomfortable.

I want Dad to be happy but he’s a little… too happy. It’s been a year since

Mom’s death, and he’s been seeing Karen since one week after she died. Dad

seemed more concerned with getting Karen’s phone number than he was with

mourning his wife of thirty years at the funeral after-party. (Is that what they call

the part after the funeral where everyone eats nger sandwiches and tells you

how they can relate to your loss because they lost a cat a few years back?)

Dad moved quicker than my brothers and I expected, and it hasn’t been easy

on any of us. We struggle but still make eorts to connect with him. We already

lost our mom, we don’t want to lose our dad, too.

To be fair, Dad’s been making eorts as well, a lot more than he made when

Mom was alive. He’s been calling us every so often to check in, and he had us

make Amazon wish lists for Christmas so he’d know what to get us.

That’s why when Dad called me up last week to say he wanted to meet in

person to “talk about things,” while I was slightly surprised by the framing, I

assumed that this chat session set for today was just another one of those eorts.

But as I’m sitting here across from Dad and Karen, soaking in the lack of

chemistry, I quickly realize that this is not one of Dad’s eorts at all. There’s

something stier than usual in his body language. I gure this must be some sort

of announcement.

Now my body stiens. Shit. Dad and Karen are getting married. Oh God, am

I gonna have to pretend to be supportive, excited even? I pick at my ngernails

so I don’t have to make eye contact while I prepare myself for what I’m about to

ask.

“So… Why’d you want to meet up?”

“Oh, well, uh…” Dad looks to Karen. She gives him big “go on” eyes. Oh

God, no, here it comes.

Here it comes…

“Dustin, Scottie, and you… are not… my biological children.”

…

Huh?

I’m shocked. I feel the color drain from my face. I’m sure I’m about to pass

out.

“Wha—?” my cottonmouth nally chokes out.

Dad just nods. Tears well in Karen’s eyes.

“But he is your father,” she says, her voice cracking with emotional strain.

“This man’s your father.”

The dizziness starts to subside, but I still can’t think straight. Tears fall down

my cheeks even though I’m completely numb.

“I just thought you should know,” Dad says, eyes looking down at his hands

while he rubs them together. Mom always hated when Dad rubbed his hands

together. “Get a hand cream, Mark.”

I lean over and hug him. He hugs me back. Karen watches.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say.

My head’s buried in his annel. I smell the familiar pinewood and paint. All I

can see is the plaid chest pocket right in front of my eyes. I feel the fabric getting

all wet from my tears.

Karen leans toward my hunched-over body and drapes her right arm over me

in a sort of half hug. Why, whenever two people are hugging in a room of three,

does the third person feel the need to get in on the hug? Hugs were meant as a

two-person activity, not a three-person one. We don’t need you, Number 3.

Thank you.

“He told me, and I told him he had to tell you,” Karen whisper-speaks into

my hair. “I told him he just had to tell you. You deserve to know.”

I nally break away from the thrug and look out the window so I don’t have

to look at Dad or Karen. There’s something about inherently dramatic moments

that makes eye contact during those moments feel even more weighty and

dramatic. It’s a hat on a hat. There’s enough drama here as it is. We’re good.

I’m looking out the window when I start to think about asking Dad who my

biological father is. I want desperately to ask. I’m dying to know. Who is he? Do

I have anything in common with him? Would he and I get along easier than

Mark and I? Would there be a naturalness to our dynamic? I’m close to asking,

but I stop myself. I don’t want to oend Dad. Or “Dad,” rather. For tonight,

we’ll just leave it at this. I’ve got time to ask all my questions later.

“So, should we go see a movie, or…?” “Dad” asks.

Potato.

76.

I’M SO NERVOUS TO TELL Steven the news that I’ve held o until as late as I

possibly could—this exact moment. I’m supposed to leave for a press junket in

Australia in an hour. Netix is launching there, so they’re sending a few cast

members from various shows overseas to promote the launch. It’ll be me, Daryl

Hannah, Ellie Kemper, Aziz Ansari, and I’ve even heard rumblings of the

goddess herself, Robin Wright. Fingers crossed.

“I have something big to tell you,” I say to Steven while we sit across from

each other at my dinner table.

It’s been a week since Mark told me he’s not my dad, and I’ve far from

processed the information. Every day since has felt like a blur. I’ve been relying

heavily on purging and alcohol to get me through the week.

I’ve had time to ask Mark some of my many questions. Did he know about

Mom’s aair as it was happening? (He says yes.) Do my brothers know about

this whole asco? (He says no.) Is he absolutely 1,000 percent sure that this is the

truth? (He says yes.) Does he know who my father is? (Yes.) But other than these

basic, concrete answers that I’ve gotten, every other question I ask is brushed o

with “I don’t know” or some variation of it.

How did he stay with Mom for all those years when he knew she was having

an aair that produced three children? (“I don’t know…”) Does my biological

father know I exist? (“I’m not sure…”) How did the aair nally end?

(“Ummmm… dunno.”)

The question that I most desperately want the answer to, by far, is why didn’t

Mom tell us? Why did Mom not tell us when she had the chance? How could

Mom not tell us?

I’ve tried to justify her decision, to make sense of it. But the more I mull it

over, the more I try to excuse her decision or even try to understand it, the

angrier I become.

Regardless of why she didn’t tell us, she didn’t. That hurts me in and of itself.

This is the person who meant more to me than anyone or anything in the

world. This is the person who was the center of my existence. Her dreams were

my dreams, her happiness was my happiness. How could the person who I lived

and breathed for have kept such a fundamental piece of my identity hidden from

me?

I could pretend that she never had the chance to tell us, that she desperately

wanted to tell us but that it was never the right time… but that’s just not true.

She had chances, times where she thought she was dying, where she was aware of

her own mortality. I think of somebody’s dying days as the perfect opportunity

to tie up loose ends, get their aairs in order, tell their children who their real

fathers are. So why did Mom not do that with hers? Why did she continue to

avoid the truth?

The lack of answers, of any semblance of closure, is infuriating. The more

questions I don’t get answers to, the more questions I have. The more questions

I have, the more questions I don’t get answers to, and I’m driving myself crazy in

the process of trying to nd them. I need someone I can vent to, a sounding

board, a voice of reason.

I intentionally haven’t told Steven about the whole bio-dad situation for the

past week because I was waiting for the whole religion situation to subside. I

gured you can either have a bio-dad situation or a religion situation, not both at

the same time. But now that I’ve gotta leave for my ight, I have no choice. It’d

be weird to wait until I get back to tell the most signicant person in my life.

“Okay…” Steven says as he takes in the introduction to my announcement.

“And actually, I have something big to tell you too….”

“Okay…” I say, kind of puzzled. “Well, you go rst, ’cuz mine’s pretty big.”

“No, you go rst, mine’s really big,” Steven says condently.

“Look, just go. Please.”

“All right,” Steven says with a weighted exhale. “I… am Jesus Christ

reincarnated.”

…

Huh?

My rst instinct is to burst out laughing, the kind of uncomfortable laugh

that’s an automatic result of shock, sadness, anger, and disbelief combined.

Steven thinks he’s Jesus-Our-Lord-and-Savior-Christ? Come on. He’s gotta be

kidding me. The second I realize he’s not, my second instinct hits me. I want to

cry. I want to just crumple into myself and let it all out.

“You’ve gotta believe me, Jenny,” Steven says with gravity. “I know it sounds

crazy, but you’ve gotta believe me.”

I shake myself o and go puke in the bathroom while I come up with a game

plan. By the time I get back, I’m trying to gure out if there’s anything I can do

about my boyfriend thinking he’s Jesus Christ in the minutes I have left before I

need to head out.

It’s clear Steven is unwell, but I have no one to tell that information to who

would be helpful in any way. I don’t have any of the phone numbers for his

family members or friends—our relationship is too new for that. I try and

discreetly ask for the phone number of one of his friends that lives nearby, but

Steven bursts into tears, begging me to not tell anyone the secret I told him.

“It’s just between me and you, Jenny,” he cries.

“I think you should tell your family,” I urge him, knowing that if he does,

they’ll see that something’s up and likely y down to take care of him.

“I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I just can’t. They won’t believe me. Only

you’ll believe me, Jenny.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing left in me to respond with. I am powerless.

And distraught. Steven is my rst real love. Up until ten minutes ago, the joy I’ve

gotten from this relationship has been the only positive thing in my life recently.

I’m not ready to let go. I wipe a tear away with my sleeve, and my eye catches the

clock on the wall. I’m gonna be late. I have to leave.

I hug Steven. He hugs me back. I get a text from my manager on the way to

the airport. Robin Wright has conrmed.

77.

THE FLIGHT TO SYDNEY IS fourteen hours of puking-in-an-airplane-bathroom

hell. I eat two full in-ight meals and puke them both up, plus the near-constant

stream of snacks that the ight attendant oers—gummy bears, graham

crackers, Doritos. Every last snack is down, up, and out for me. It’s chaos.

There’s not one moment of the ight where I’m not eating or throwing up or—

in the time between the eating and the throwing up—planning how to get up

for the fourteenth time without getting a weird stare from the businessman in

the toupee sitting next to me.

By the last time I throw up, I feel like I’m about to pass out. My mouth feels

sour from the vomit and sore from the act of vomiting. I shove my ngers down

my throat, my eyes bulging as a by-product, and with the brown chunky uid

that pours out of my mouth and into the gray toilet bowl like an ugly waterfall, I

spot a small, white, hard chunk. I run my tongue along my teeth and realize one

of them is missing. The acidity from my stomach uids has worn down my

enamel to the point that I just lost a lower-left molar.

I taste pennies and spit into the sink. A stream of blood. I reluctantly cup my

hand under the airplane bathroom sink and wash my mouth out with the

questionable water. I do this four or ve times before catching my reection in

the mirror. I try and avoid it, but I can’t. Not in a space this small with a mirror

this big. I look at myself for a long beat. I don’t like what I see.

We touch down in Sydney. As I walk toward the Nissan Sentra that’s waiting

for me, I see on my phone that there’s a voicemail from an unknown number. I

swipe my phone open to check it. It’s Steven’s parents. They tell me that Steven

called them, frantic, and they were so concerned that they ew out to visit him.

They’re with him now at a mental facility to run some tests because a

psychiatrist there thinks that Steven might have schizophrenia. I nish the

message and get into the back seat of the car.

“Hey, how’s it going?” the upbeat Uber driver asks.

I look straight ahead, not answering the driver. How’s it going? It’s going

fucking terribly. Mom lied my entire life about who my biological father was,

I’m caught in the undertow of bulimia, I’m gonna have to do an entire press

junket while missing a lower left molar, and my boyfriend’s schizophrenic. It

could not be going any worse.

“Ooh, I love this song. You mind if I turn it up?”

The Uber driver cranks up the volume knob before waiting for my answer.

It’s Ariana Grande’s hit single “Focus on Me.”

“It’s even better than her last single, huh?” the driver asks. He bobs his head

and hums along. Beats the dashboard with enthusiasm.

I look out the window and see the Sydney Opera House in the distance. I

tongue my missing molar, deep in thought. Maybe Ariana’s got a point. Maybe

it’s time to focus on me.

78.

“HELLO, JENNETTE.”

“Hi, Je.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and step on the scale?”

Ahem? Excuse me? Nowhere in my consultation paperwork was there a

clause stating that I would have to weigh myself at the rst session with this

eating disorder specialist I found online. If I’d read that, I’m not sure I would

have booked the appointment. And even if I had somehow managed to still

book the appointment, I would have worn my “getting weighed in public”

outt, which I wear to every doctor’s appointment I have, regardless of the

weather—a poplin skirt and my thinnest tank top. (I want my clothes to add as

little weight as possible.) I never would have worn jeans. Goddamned thick,

heavy jeans. And a sweater. A lumpy, hefty, cable-knit sweater.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes. But you don’t have to look at the number and I won’t tell it to you. It’s

simply for my clinical purposes. I’ll need to document your weight at the start of

each session.”

I wring my hands with agitation.

“You seem upset.”

“I don’t want to be weighed.”

“This is just part of the process, and I totally understand how it might be

upsetting. To be honest, your reaction is mild compared to a lot of what I see.”

“What do you see?”

“People start sobbing, sometimes they yell, someone threw her purse across

the room once. That was fun.”

I laugh.

“Facing your emotional experience is going to be the most transformative

part of your recovery. That starts with facing your emotional experience around

food, eating, your body, and yes, getting weighed. I’ll be here to help you

through all of it, but if you want to get better, you’re gonna need to face all of

it.”

“Doesn’t sound like there’s much wiggle room, Je.”

He chuckles, and then his chuckle ends abruptly and he doesn’t say anything.

He just keeps looking at me.

Je is tall—six foot three, maybe—with kind blue eyes and a perfectly

trimmed blond beard to match his perfectly styled blond hair, neatly swept to

one side. He wears slacks, a checkered button-down with a tie, and a black belt

with a silver buckle. His gestures are as exact as his phrasing—no uhhs or umms,

in speech or in mannerisms. This is an umless man. I respect him. It takes a lot to

be an umless man.

I get up and walk over to the scale. I shut my eyes and take a long inhale, then

step on it. I hear him make a note on his clipboard.

“You can step o now.”

I do. I return to the couch and sit on it. Je smiles at me—there’s a little

warmth to his smile, but it’s more so the smile of someone who means business.

“Let’s get to work.”

79.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I EVER thought I was Jesus,” Steven says with a laugh, as he eats

a fry.

We’re sitting across from each other at a table at Laurel Tavern, a bar in

Studio City. I’m nursing a mezcal mule and taking in Steven the way I used to

take in my mother after any of her brushes with death that she survived. It’s a

pure way of taking somebody in. There’s a grateful astonishment. They’re here.

They’re still here.

I thought Steven’s trip to the psychiatric ward might be the last I’d hear from

him. But as soon as he had access to his phone again, he called. We both wept.

He sounded like his usual self, sort of. There was more lethargy to his tone, a

numbness that didn’t used to be there. He told me this was due to the lithium he

was taking and that, with time, he’d get back to his old pre-diagnosis self. I

wanted desperately for that to be the case.

And now, sitting across from him two months later, I’m starting to think it

might be. We’re living together again, and he seems to be doing well. He’s

actively seeing a therapist and psychiatrist. He’s on medication. His vow of

celibacy is over and we’re having great sex. He’s making light of his schizophrenic

episode the way you can only do when the thing you’re making light of is truly a

thing of the past.

“I can’t believe it either,” I agree.

Steven takes my hands in his from across the table. His ngers are greasy from

the fries. I don’t mind.

“That must’ve been so scary,” he says.

“It was.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“It’s okay. I really couldn’t be there for you either, honestly. With everything

going on.”

“I know. But we’re both working on our stu now. We’re gonna be able to be

there for each other. It’s gonna be so good.”

I nod. I believe him.

80.

I’M STARING AT THE PLATE of spaghetti in front of me. I’ve been staring at it for at

least ten minutes while I process all the thoughts and emotions that are coming

up for me before eating it.

I pick up my pencil and start lling out my worksheet.

Thoughts: I want this spaghetti, but I don’t want this spaghetti. I’m terried

that this will make me heavy. I don’t want to feel bogged down. I don’t want to

feel heaviness. I’m tired of feeling so much heaviness. I’m scared of eating. I

don’t want to throw this up.

Feelings: Dread—8/10. Anxiety—8/10. Fear—7/10. Lust—6/10.

I take a deep breath and then I take a bite. More thoughts. More feelings.

Always more thoughts and feelings. Exhausting, constant thoughts and feelings.

I go back to my worksheet to start writing them down.

Thoughts while eating: Mom always said sodium made my face puy. I’m

scared my face is gonna be puy tomorrow. Mom would be mad if she saw me

eating this. Mom would be disappointed. I’m a failure.

Feelings: Sadness—8/10. Disappointment—8/10.

I start to cry. I set my pencil down and let the tears fall, as instructed by Je.

I’ve been seeing Je for three months now, and the progress is slow but

steady. We’ve done so much work it’s hard to keep track of it at this point.

The work started with me throwing out all diet foods (Lean Cuisine frozen

dinners, diet cranberry juice, diet teas, etc.), as well as all gym clothes. No

working out during this phase of recovery. Stretching and reasonable walks are

ne, but no half-marathons for me anymore. All indicators of diet had to go.

Then I was told to track my binges and purges for two weeks, as well as every

single thing I ate and the time that I ate it. Tracking my purges made sense to me,

that was a thing Laura had me do, so I expected it, but tracking my food intake

confused me. Isn’t tracking food a part of disordered eating? Isn’t it a

compulsive, unhealthy thing to do?

“Yes, tracking what you eat is going to be a behavior that we want to knock

out with time. In fact, eventually I’ll have you keep a tally on how often you

track, so that we can work toward getting that number to zero.”

“So, tracking… tracking.”

Slight chuckle. Abrupt ending. “Correct.”

“All right. So then why am I tracking my foods now if I’m supposed to work

toward not tracking them?”

“I need to get a sense of your behaviors around food. Seeing what goes into

your body and when will help me understand that.”

After two weeks of tracking, Je reads over my worksheets while stroking his

beard.

“Hmmm. Yes. Interesting. Hmm. Yes.”

What? What, Je? What?

“Interesting…”

“What’s interesting?” I ask nally, when I can’t hold it in any longer.

“So you skip breakfast almost every day, and then you eat a late lunch, around

two thirty or three p.m. But it’s not really a lunch. It’s not a full meal. I’m seeing

eight bites of salmon on Tuesday—very specic—a protein bar on Wednesday,

two eggs on Thursday. Why did you purge the eggs?”

I shrug.

“We’ll get there. Okay, so you’re having these very late, incomplete lunches,

and then around eight p.m. it looks like you have dinner, which is also

incomplete every night. Then, and here’s where things start to really click,

around eleven p.m. you have what you describe as a binge. An entire plate of pad

Thai with fried rice, plus a burrito from Del Taco. And then it looks like you

purge whatever you eat around that time, every night.”

Yes, I know, Je. I wrote the list.

“Right,” I say, pretending like I’m learning something.

“So here’s the thing, Jennette. You’re starving yourself for the rst part of the

day. You’re not eating breakfast, you’re having late and incomplete lunches and

dinners, and then you’re so famished by eleven p.m. that you’re eating because

your body is begging you for it. And it makes perfect sense the foods you’re

choosing to eat around this time. Because you’re so famished you want

something hearty, something that will sustain you. But then, of course, because

of your judgments around those foods and because of your deeply entrenched

destructive thought patterns, you purge them up. And then repeat the cycle the

next day.”

“Honestly, this was a good week,” I explain. “I think because I want to ‘do

well’ in therapy or whatever.”

“That makes sense,” Je assures me. “No need to overanalyze it. Just take it as

it is. A step up.” He nods politely, then lowers his chin and looks at me with

determination. “But I think we’re capable of more.”

I believe him. He’s so sure. And an umless man isn’t sure of something for no

reason. An umless man is sure of things that he is sure of.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna normalize your eating. Three full

meals a day and two snacks, each at predetermined times. No negotiations.

Before starting the eating normalization process, we need to identify your risky

foods. Risky foods are the foods you have a lot of judgment around—the foods

you feel more compelled to purge.”

Don’t have to tell me twice. I start rattling o a list.

“Cakes, pies, ice cream, sandwiches, french fries, bread, cheese, butter, chips,

cookies, pasta…”

“Great, great,” Je says as he takes rigorous notes but refuses to ask me to

slow down. It’s the achiever in him, I can tell. The pen ies. He’s going for the

gold. He crosses the t in “pasta” and looks up at me.

“So one of our ultimate goals here in therapy is to reduce judgment around

food. All judgment. We want you to neutralize food. It’s just a thing you eat,

neither good nor bad. Regardless of whether it’s pineapple or pancakes.”

“I see both of those as bad, because they both have a lot of sugar.”

Je blinks once.

“Right, so that’s what we’re gonna work on.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll warn you, Jennette, normalizing your eating patterns and mentally

neutralizing food is not gonna be easy. At all. It’s gonna be hard emotional work.

For so long, your eating has been so… fucked up.”

Didn’t expect that F-bomb, Je, but I appreciate the fervor.

“It’s gonna be intense. But I’ll help you through it.”

I’m sitting here with my salty tears falling onto my plate of spaghetti, watering

down the marinara sauce. Je was right. Normalizing my eating and neutralizing

food is hard emotional work.

The crying gets heavier to where my chest starts heaving. I get mad at myself

for crying. It makes me feel dramatic. Out of control.

Tears fall onto my worksheet and blur the ink. Fuck. I try to blow on the wet

spot to dry it, but snot drips out of my nose and falls onto the page and makes it

worse. I crumple the worksheet into a ball and throw it across the room toward

the trash can. It doesn’t land anywhere close. Jesus Christ.

Fuck it. I get up, hurry to the bathroom, and purge.

81.

“SLIPS ARE TOTALLY NORMAL. WHEN you have a slip, it’s just that. A slip. It

doesn’t dene you. It doesn’t make you a failure. The most important thing is

that you don’t let that slip become a slide,” Je tells me, and then he hands me a

packet titled Don’t Let Slips Become Slides. (I have a feeling he rehearsed this

moment. “Say it, then hand them the packet. Yeah, that’ll hit home.”)

These packets are a weekly occurrence with Je. At the end of every session,

he hands me a new one. Usually they include an article, maybe a quiz or two,

and some worksheets. The topics have a wide range, everything from How to

Establish Healthy Relationships (And Take Stock of Your Current Ones) to

Building an Identity without Your Eating Disorder to What Is Self-Care,

Actually?

I enjoy doing the packets. I like that I’m able to get myself on paper. It

simplies things for me. When everything’s in my head, it feels chaotic and

jumbled. But when I can look down at a sheet of paper and see myself reected

back in words and tallies and graphs, it’s clarifying.

The packets always reiterate whatever our session was about, so I know

today’s session is going to be about slips.

“Jennette, this is going to be one of the most important parts of recovery.

Accepting slips and moving on from them.”

I nod.

“People with a propensity for eating disorders tend to be the types of people

who get very caught up in their mistakes and struggle to move on from them.

Perfectionists. Does that resonate?”

“Yeah…” (The label’s a little annoying, but it resonates.)

“The problem with this is that if we beat ourselves up after a mistake, we add

shame onto the guilt and frustration that we already feel about our mistake.

That guilt and frustration can be helpful in moving us forward, but shame…

shame keeps us stuck. It’s a paralyzing emotion. When we get caught in a shame

spiral, we tend to make more of the same kinds of mistakes that caused us shame

in the rst place.”

I nod, catching on.

“So it makes slips become slides.”

Je points at me with pride.

“Bingo.”

I could’ve done without the “bingo,” but the point connects with me in a

deep and powerful way. I’m realizing how much shame spirals have contributed

to my issues. I’m so tired of swearing over and over again that “this time I’m

done for real.” Maybe this acceptance of slips is the missing piece. Maybe when I

have a slip, I can acknowledge how disappointing and frustrating it is without

getting caught in the shame spiral. Without letting that spiral lead to more slips,

and more slips, and more slips, until they’ve become a slide. Maybe now a slip

can be, as Je says, just that. A slip.

82.

SHIT. I’M RUNNING LATE FOR a meeting. I grab my bag and hurry downstairs

when I see him sitting there, looking out the window and twirling his hair with

his index nger. His expression is catatonic, the way it often is lately. It scares me

when I see him like this. The rst time it happened, I thought maybe it was

because he was on too high a dose of lithium. But the lithium dose has been

adjusted a dozen times, and the catatonia hasn’t stopped. That’s when I realized

it was something else.

“Hey boy,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “How’s it going?”

He doesn’t seem to hear me.

“Steven?”

Nothing. I bite my lip.

“Um, I have to go to a meeting. Do you wanna come along for the ride? You

can maybe walk around while I’m in there? Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

I’ve started inviting Steven to come along with me whenever I have

appointments or work or meetings. I’m afraid he won’t leave the house

otherwise.

Steven has completely stopped working and seems opposed to ever returning

to it. He claims “work is a waste of life.” He has no hobbies and isn’t interested

in spending time with his friends. The only thing Steven does these days is

smoke weed. He wakes up in the morning and smokes immediately, then

continuously smokes throughout the day. He’s high every minute he’s awake. So

high. Higher than I’ve ever seen anyone. Catatonia-level high.

At rst I thought it was okay. It seemed like a reprieve for him from his

schizophrenia diagnosis and all the overwhelm that came with it. I tried to be

supportive. I even helped him nd a dealer who could get him the amount he

wanted, which seemed to be a lot.

But then it became this. And it’s not that I don’t understand this. I do. I very

much understand the need to numb out everything in your life. But I’m not

numbing out anymore. And maybe that’s the problem here, for us at least. I’m

making strides in my bulimia recovery. I’m no longer abusing my body to nearly

the extent that I used to. I’m trying every day to face myself. The results vary, but

the attempts are consistent.

The further into my recovery I get, the further into his drug of choice Steven

gets. And the further away from each other we grow.

And so a few weeks ago I had the brilliant idea that I’d get us back on the

same page, whatever it took. Steven tried to help me with my bulimia, so I’ll try

and help him with his marijuana addiction.

I printed out a bunch of articles about how to quit smoking weed. I looked

up support groups. I suggested he try a new therapist who specialized in

addiction. I planned activities for us so we’d be out and about and he’d be less

likely to use. I invited him everywhere I went so I could monitor him. I pitched

him on potential hobbies to take up. I threw away his weed.

Nothing has worked. He won’t read the articles. He won’t go to the support

groups. He won’t try a new therapist and even quit going to his current one. He

doesn’t want a hobby. He bought more weed.

I’m helpless. I’m powerless over him. But I love him. And I want us to be

together. So I’ll keep trying.

“So do you wanna come?” I ask him again.

“Oh, uh… nahhh, Jenny. I’m just gonna stay here. But thanks for inviting

me,” he says as he keeps twirling his hair.

83.

“BOB, DID YA HEAR HER?! She ran out of all her money!” Grandma wails, then

throws her head on Grandpa’s shoulder and weeps a tearless weep into it.

Grandma’s not even a weller.

“She didn’t say anything like that, hun,” Grandpa assures her with more

patience than I understand.

I’m sitting with my grandparents in the living room of my Studio City home.

I still have Grandma blocked, but she won’t let Grandpa see me without her

tagging along. I’ve just broken the news to them that I’ll be selling my house.

The news is not going over well.

“What am I gonna tell Linda? And Joanie? And Louise?!” Grandma yells

with her arms ailing in confusion.

“I think you can just tell them the truth,” I oer.

“That my granddaughter who I love more than anything on this entire planet

decided willy-nilly to up and move out of her beautiful home and into a measly

little one-bedroom apartment?!”

“Sure.”

“No!”

“It’s gonna be okay, hun,” Grandpa tells Grandma with a pat on her hand.

The areas in my life that cause me stress is a topic I discuss often in therapy

with Je. My house has come up enough that Je asked why I don’t sell it.

“Well, I’ve wanted to sell it for a while, but I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Je asks.

“Because it’s… not smart.”

“Why is it not smart?”

“Because a home is a good investment.”

“Hmm. Tell me what’s stressful about your home.”

“Well it’s constantly falling apart. There’s always something to x—a

contractor comes by almost every day. I didn’t realize homeownership was gonna

be another job, a job I’m not interested in and don’t have the time for.”

“Anything else?”

“It feels lonely. And kinda scary. It’s too big for me. And I don’t like the

neighborhood. And somebody leaked my address online so I’ve had a couple

stalkers who show up sometimes and leave creepy notes, and one time one of

them left a bouquet of roses dripping with blood…”

“That’s a lot of stressful things.”

“Yeah.”

“And yet you’re not selling it because it’s a good investment?”

“Yeah.”

“What about it makes it a good investment?”

“I’m not exactly sure. It’s sorta just a thing I’ve heard. You know? Everybody

says a home is a good investment.”

“A good investment for one person might be a bad investment for another.”

“Okay.”

“What about your investment in your mental health? Feeling safe is

important to mental health, and you mentioned that you don’t feel safe.”

“I don’t, but… I don’t know. I don’t think I can sell it.”

Je holds an unblinking stare at me.

“I could buy some plants.” I shrug. The amount of times I’ve thought buying

plants might make a dierence in my life is staggering.

“Any other ideas?” Je asks.

“I could take more vacations.”

“But that doesn’t directly impact your main environment—your home.

Which is the main environment that inuences your mental health. So why

don’t we stay focused on the home?”

“But no plants?”

“Bigger than plants.” Je nods.

“I could… hire an interior decorator?”

“Okay, and how would that reduce your stress?”

“Well, the house is kind of empty-looking. And feeling. It feels lonely.”

“And some rugs are gonna help that?”

“They might,” I say with a little sauce. Don’t love that judge-y question, Je.

“All right,” Je says simply. “Then why don’t we start there?”

I get home and call my realtor to ask if he knows of any good interior

decorators. He says he knows just the one.

Liz shows up at my place in a black owy top and cheetah-print leggings. I

should’ve known then. Shania Twain is the only person on earth who should be

allowed to go anywhere near cheetah print.

“So how would you describe your home style?” Liz asks as she sits down at

the dining table. She plops her big bucket bag on it and starts pulling out scraps

of fabric, binders of materials, and thick home magazines.

“Uhhh…” I look around the empty room. “I have no clue. I was thinking I’d

just go with whatever you were thinking.”

“Oooh, excellent,” Liz says excitedly. “I have lots of ideas. I think the front-

runner is… glamor chic with animal-print accents.”

I do everything in my power to avoid looking at her leggings.

“Not a huge fan of animal print.”

“Oh,” she says, slightly oended. “Well, it would just be subtle accents. We

could do some cheetah print, or cow print, or zebra print, that’s very in right

now.”

Why are you pushing zebras on me, Liz?! I don’t want zebra print on my

pillows or my blankets or my curtains. It’s a thing I’ve never understood, why we

have to go and try to make pillows and blankets and curtains “fun” with prints.

These things aren’t fun, they’re functional. Give me some simple, solid-colored,

coordinating furniture and let’s call it a day.

“That’s okay,” I say as delicately as I can. “I just want simple stu. I don’t

have an eye for it, but I know I want simple.”

“But you’re so young! And fun! Don’t you want your space to reect that?”

No.

“Uhh…”

“Why don’t we just try it? Why don’t we just start with this plan and then

anything you don’t like I can return, except for the things that are

nonrefundable.”

A pushover is a bad thing to be, but an opinionated pushover is a worse thing

to be. A pushover is nice and goes along with it, whatever it is. An opinionated

pushover acts nice and goes along with it, but while quietly brooding and

resentful. I am an opinionated pushover.

“Okay,” I say politely, brooding.

Three days later, mint-and-cream cheetah-print curtains show up at my

doorstep with a receipt: $14,742. Liz is clearly used to working with clients who

don’t mind dropping fteen grand to block the sun, but I am not one of those

clients.

Prints and pricing aside, I’m starting to accept that it doesn’t matter what

kind of blankets or curtains or pillows I have, they won’t make up for the

constant construction and the loneliness and the stalkers with the bloody roses. I

can’t be in this house.

I call Liz to tell her I won’t be needing her services anymore.

“Well, I am disappointed,” she tells me. “But I totally understand and wish

you the best of luck with decorating your home.”

“Thanks, but actually I think I’m gonna sell it.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.”

“Well okay…”

“Yeah. So, anyway… let me know where you want me to drop o the cheetah

curtains so you can return them.”

“Oh, those are nonrefundable.”

Now, days later, I’m trying to reason with Grandma.

“I don’t understand why me selling this house is such a big deal to you.”

“Because!” Grandma shouts.

I always forget that trying to reason with the unreasonable is… unreasonable.

“This is what’s best for me. And I’d really appreciate if you’d support the

decision.”

“Well I don’t. I just don’t!” Grandma buries her head in Grandpa’s armpit.

“It’s all right, hun. It’s gonna be all right,” Grandpa tells her.

“Where are ya even gonna be movin’ to, doll?” Grandma asks with a snie.

“I’m moving into an apartment above The Americana.”

“The Americana?” Grandma turns to face me, snie-less. “That fancy

shopping center with the fountain and the Frank Sinatra music?”

“That’s the one.”

She hesitates.

“I guess it won’t be that bad. They do have an Ann Taylor Loft there…”

84.

“IS THIS TRYING TOO HARD?” I ask Colton and Miranda. They’re helping me pick

out the outt I’m gonna wear to the big event.

“I’d take o the skirt. It’s a little… much,” Colton tells me.

I appreciate his honesty and grab some jeans instead.

“Better.” He nods.

“What if he doesn’t like me?” I shout to them as I head into the bathroom to

change.

“He’s gonna like you,” Miranda calls out to assure me.

I’m so jittery. I’m way more nervous than I’ve ever been to go on a rst date.

Maybe because the stakes are higher. This isn’t just any rst date. This is my rst

date with my biological dad.

We’re in Miranda’s Porsche on the 405 as we head down to Newport Beach

to the hotel where the concert is happening.

“So your bio-dad plays the trumpet?” Colton asks as we get close to the

destination.

“Trombone,” I correct him.

“Same thing,” Colton says with a shrug.

I know he’s trying to keep the conversation going because the mood’s gotten

heavier the closer we’ve gotten to the hotel. With good reason. I’m showing up

unannounced at the jazz concert performed by my biological father who I’m not

sure even knows I exist.

Even though I wasn’t able to nd out much from Mark-Dad about the

situation, I was able to get bio-dad’s full name and occupation, which was

enough for a quick online search to lead me to his ocial website. He had a list

of credits that he’s played on the soundtracks of—various Star Wars lms,

Jurassic World, Lost, and countless others—and a list of upcoming tour dates for

his fun side passion project, a jazz band. I chose the latest possible LA area date

to attend, because I wanted as much time as possible to emotionally prepare.

And now here I am, minutes away from this concert, and months since I’d

rst decided to come, and I still don’t feel emotionally prepared.

Does Andrew know he’s my father? Does he know he’s Dustin and Scott’s

father? Was he ever around when I was little? Where did he and Mom leave o?

Did he keep in touch with her? Does he know she’s dead? Does he have a family

now? Do they know about this situation?

I have so many questions, and the range of possibilities of answers is

unsettling to me. I’ve considered the possibility that he has a family, that his kids

might be at the show, and that they might not know. And I don’t want to be the

one to introduce this news into their lives. So I’ve decided that I’ll approach him

at the end of the concert, as soon as he’s leaving the stage, and only if he’s alone.

I’ve also considered that maybe he’ll deny it. Maybe he’ll say, “fuck o.”

Maybe he won’t know. I have no idea what I’m in for.

Miranda pulls up to the valet and we all hop out of the car. Colton grabs my

arm for comfort—Miranda doesn’t. So many female friendships seem so rooted

in physical contact—the clutching of hands, constant hugging, hair touching,

whatever. Miranda and I have a friendship that is not entirely void of physical

contact, but almost. Hugs between us are rare, and it feels right.

We walk through the hotel corridors, and I stop at the bathroom to pee.

Miranda comes with me, I think to make sure I’m not vomiting. She’s never told

me this directly, but I can tell. She doesn’t come with me every time. She’s not

the obvious type.

Typically I’d feel agitated, the way I would when Steven always tried to

intercept a purge. But not this time, because this time I’m not planning on it.

There’s nothing in my body to purge. I’ve felt nauseous all day and unable to

eat. I’ve made a mental note to bring this up in therapy tomorrow, but for today,

I just want to get through.

I wash my hands for a long time, hoping this will rid them of their

clamminess. I add more mascara and a little more blush. Why am I so concerned

with how I look around my bio-dad? I’ve noticed this all day long. I stu my

mascara back into my bag and we head through the hotel and out to the

courtyard, where the gig is happening. I hate the word gig but I’m pretty sure

that’s the proper term for this.

Colton, Miranda, and I sit at a table near the back a few minutes before the

show starts. The crowd is mostly folks in their forties and fties, wealthy-

looking. Lotta Gucci.

“What brings you kids here?” the woman sitting next to me, wine-drunk and

pearls-clad, asks.

I think about saying, “Well my biological father who I’ve never met plays the

trombone in this band, so I was just gonna accost him after the show to try and

nd answers about my dysfunctional mess of a childhood,” but I don’t.

“We just like jazz,” Colton says nally, after he realizes there’s nothing more

than a blank stare coming from my end.

“Oh, that’s good. We need more young people like you. Cultured. Which jazz

bands do you like?”

“Just all of ’em. The whole… all of ’em.” Colton nods.

“Great, great,” Pearls responds with a smile, seemingly satised by that non-

answer. “Ooh, here they are!”

Pearls claps ecstatically, and the three of us turn to see the band walking out

onto the stage. I laser in on my dad, carrying his trombone. I can’t say I see a

resemblance. Maybe I’m sitting too far back. Or maybe Mom’s genes were

stronger.

The band starts playing. Colton grabs my hand a few times. Miranda watches

me out of the corner of her eye. I feel like I’m in a trance the whole time the

band’s playing.

An hour later, the saxophonist announces they’re on their last song. My

mouth goes dry. My hands are drenched. My heart is pounding.

“Okay, let’s go,” Colton says, taking my hand. The three of us get up from

the table and head toward the stage exit.

“Where’re you guys going?!”

Not now, Pearls.

The nal song is coming to the nal measures and we’re not yet to the stage

exit. We pick up the pace.

“You can’t come here,” a security guard tells us.

“Sorry, she has a quick thing she has to do,” Colton says with the condence

of someone who’s giving legitimate information.

The security guard is confused enough to let us pass. I look up and see him

crossing o the stage—my biological dad.

“Hurry!” Miranda says.

I run the last thirty yards or so until I get to him just as he’s walking down the

stage steps. He feels me. We make eye contact. He looks puzzled, maybe a little

alarmed.

“I think we have something in common” is what comes out of my mouth.

His eyes well with tears. Mine do too.

The next ten minutes are an informational exchange of a blur. I ask him if he

knew about me, that I existed. He says yes. And my brothers. He says that he’s

been waiting for us to contact him. He didn’t want to contact us because he

wasn’t sure if we knew. He asks how I found out. I tell him. He says things

ended poorly with Mom and that there was a big custody battle when we were

little—that Mom said he was physically abusive (he assures me he wasn’t). She

won. I ask him if he knew Mom died. He says yes, he saw it on E! News. I think

about what a strange sentence that is.

Tech people start telling us we have to move. Bio-dad gives me his phone

number and tells me to text him. We hug and say goodbye. Miranda and Colton

come over to me. I’m having a lot of feelings and I can identify what they are. It

feels like progress.

I’m glad he knew we existed. I’m relieved to have this event over with. I’m

disappointed by the brevity of it. I’m confused and sad that he didn’t reach out

to me rst. I will never know for sure if he wanted to meet me, or if he’s just

saying it because that’s what you’re supposed to say.

As far as rst dates go, this has certainly been the most interesting one I’ve

been on. I’m not sure if there will be a second.

85.

IT’S COLD AND HEAVY IN my hands. I walk slowly with it because I’m stalling. I’ve

gotten rid of it before, seven or eight times. But every time, I go right back out

the next day and get a new one. So far I haven’t been able to get through twenty-

four hours without getting a new one, but I’m hopeful that this time might be

dierent. Maybe this time, since I’m making it more of an occasion, since my

getting rid of it is my gift to myself for my twenty-fourth birthday, I’ll be able to

get rid of it for good.

My scale has dened me for so long. The number it shows tells me whether

I’m succeeding or failing, whether I’m trying hard enough or not, whether I’m

good or bad. I know it’s unhealthy for anything to have that much authority

over my self-worth, but no matter how hard I’ve tried to ght it, I have always

felt reduced to the number on the scale—maybe because, in a way, it’s easier.

Dening yourself is hard. Complicated. Messy. Letting the number on the scale

do it for you is simple. Direct. Straightforward.

I am 95 pounds. Or 105 pounds. Or 115 pounds. Or 125 pounds. Whatever

the scale reads, I am that and only that. That is who I am.

Or rather, who I was. I no longer want that number to be the entirety of who

I am. To dene me. I am ready to experience life beyond the scale.

It sounds ridiculous, “life beyond the scale.” It’s so dramatic but

unfortunately true for me. I’m embarrassed that this is my reality. Maybe that’s a

good thing. Maybe that’s growth, to be embarrassed.

I approach the trash room and pull down the latch to open the chute door. I

drop the scale into the chute. I hear the scale slide down it, banging against the

sides of it as it falls. It lands. I leave.

The next day comes and goes. I don’t get a new scale.

86.

WE’RE SITTING IN A SWAN boat on Echo Park Lake. A goddamned hideous swan

boat. Neither of us have said a word for the past ve minutes, which feels like a

lot more than ve minutes when you’re sitting in a goddamned swan boat.

I’m staring at Steven. He doesn’t feel me staring. He’s looking o into the

distance half wistfully, half depressed. He’s so contemplative these days, but in

the way that gets you nowhere. It’s the way that makes your wheels spin and

your thoughts keep going in circles but there’s no forward movement.

I tried for so long to help Steven. Or to control him. I’m not sure which since

they’re so closely related. But a few months ago, I gave up.

It started with Je giving me some materials to read on codependency.

Everything I read resonated a little too much and forced me to accept that Steven

and I were in a deeply codependent relationship. Je suggested I stay focused on

trying to solve my own problems.

“But I’m here. I am trying to solve my problems.”

“And you’re doing a great job.” Je nodded, arming. “But I have a feeling

you might be able to make more progress if you take all that energy you’re

spending trying to manage Steven’s life and instead put it toward managing your

own.”

The shift happened quickly. Per Je’s suggestion, I added group therapy to

my weekly self-improvement regimen. I read more books on eating disorder

recovery. The more time I spent focused on my issues, the less time I had to

focus on Steven’s. And the less I was focusing on Steven’s, the further apart we

grew.

It’s been sad to recognize how much xing has been the backbone of our

relationship. Whether it was Steven trying to x my bulimia or me trying to x

his marijuana addiction or pushing him to nd the right cocktail of medication,

it’s been the glue of our relationship. Without that aspect of xing the other, we

don’t have much to talk about. Like right now.

“Steven,” I say nally. It jogs him out of his trance. He looks at me.

I don’t have to say a word. He knows what’s coming. He starts to cry. I do

too. We cry and we hold each other and we pedal our giant fucking bird boat.

87.

“JENNETTE, I HAVE THE WHOLE team for you,” one of my agent’s assistants tells

me over the phone.

Whenever “the whole team” is on a call, it’s one of two things: very good

news or very bad news. “The whole team” only jumps on a call to celebrate or

handhold, nothing in between. One by one each member of “the whole team”

clicks into the conference call. I wait to nd out which kind of news it is.

“Is everybody on?” a voice asks.

“Yeah, we’re all here,” another voice says.

“So, Jennette…”

Bad news. A pause is always bad news.

“… your Netix show got cancelled.”

Silence. It might be bad news in my agents’ minds, but it doesn’t sound bad

to me. It sounds… ne.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” one of the voices asks, confused.

“Okay,” I repeat. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Okay,” another voice says, sounding relieved. “Well, all right then. Uh, yeah,

so… good news is, we can start submitting you for other roles now since you’re

not on hold for Netix anymore.”

“Actually…”

A tense beat while they all wait to hear what’s coming next. I can almost feel

their fears through the phone. Is she gonna cry? Please don’t let the actress cry. God

help me.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about this for a while, since we’ve been waiting

to hear if the show got picked up for a third season. And I decided that if we got

picked up, I’d do it. But if we didn’t, I’d take a break from acting.”

Silence.

“Oh,” a voice nally chimes in. “All right then, um… huh. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Like, for sure for sure?” one of them asks.

“Yes, double for sure.”

“All right. Well… let us know if you change your mind. We’d love to keep

sending you out for roles.”

“I’ll let you know.”

A few awkward goodbyes are exchanged and then the call’s over. It’s as simple

as that. An eighteen-year career ended in a two-minute phone call.

I feel at peace with the decision. Finally. I didn’t at rst. It’s taken me over a

year of mulling and back-and-forth with Je in order to get here. I’ve known for

so long that my relationship with acting is a complicated one. Not dissimilar to

my relationship with food and my body.

Both of them feel like constant pulling, yearning, begging, ghting. I’m

trying desperately to get their approval, their aection, and I never quite seem to.

I’m never quite good enough.

I’m resentful of the ght, and exhausted with it.

I’ve nally started to take some control of my relationship with food, and the

healthier that relationship becomes, the more unhealthy a career in acting seems

for me. I understand that many aspects of any job are out of the control of the

person doing it, but in acting that’s especially the case.

As an actor, you can’t control which agents want to represent you, what roles

your agent submits you for, which auditions you get, what callbacks you get,

what roles you get, what the lines are for your role, how you look for your role,

how the director directs your performance, how the editor edits your

performance, whether the show gets picked up or the movie does well, whether

critics like your performance, whether you get famous, how the media portrays

you, and so on. God bless the souls who can tolerate that much up-in-the-airness

in their lives, but I can’t anymore.

So much of my life has felt so out of my control for so long. And I’m done

with that being my reality.

I want my life to be in my hands. Not an eating disorder’s or a casting

director’s or an agent’s or my mom’s. Mine.

88.

“I LOVE IT,” I SAY, and I’m not lying the way I did when I turned six and opened

my Rugrats pajamas. I really do love it.

I’ve had my backpack for three years and it’s gotten pretty beat-up-looking.

I’ve complained about it for months but haven’t been able to nd a decent

replacement. But Miranda did. She found a beautiful black Tumi backpack with

gold details. It’s perfect.

The only thing that beats Miranda’s presents are her cards. I pull hers out to

read it. Her handwriting is meticulous. Her phrases are kind and simple. She

always squeezes in a couple of well-placed jokes. And she always signs her cards

to me as Alec Baldwin. I don’t even remember where this joke came from

anymore but it still makes me laugh every time.

“Should we go into Disneyland rst or should we get dinner?” Miranda asks.

It’s my twenty-sixth birthday. Even though Grandpa no longer works at

Disney, because he worked there for fteen years he gets an honorary lifetime

supply of park sign-in passes and employee discounts. He used his discount to

get me 40 percent o this courtyard-view room we’re staying at in the Grand

Californian Hotel. Thanks, Grandpa.

“Let’s go into Disneyland.”

Of course I choose Disneyland. And not just because it’s Disneyland. If

there’s ever the choice between dinner and another thing, I’ll choose the other

thing.

I’m a few years into my eating disorder recovery but the road is still bumpy.

Some weeks I don’t purge. Some weeks I do. The diagnostic criteria for bulimia

stipulate that there must be a binging and purging sequence at least once a week

for three months. So even though I exceed the weekly criteria sometimes, the

purging is inconsistent enough that, according to Je, I’m no longer considered

a bulimic. I’m just a “person who sometimes exhibits bulimic behavior.” Which

still doesn’t sound great to me.

I’m glad at least that when I do have a slip, that slip no longer spirals into a

slide. That’s huge progress, I know. But I keep telling Je that I don’t want to be

a “person who sometimes exhibits bulimic behavior.” I want to be better.

Sturdier. More condent in my recovery. I want to feel like I’ve outgrown eating

disorders and they’re a thing of my past. But so far, that time hasn’t come.

Food—the lack of it, the want of it, the lust for it, the fear of it—still takes up

so much of my energy. Any mention of a meal, any reminder of one, still causes a

rush of anxiety throughout my entire body.

That’s why if there’s a choice between dinner and another thing, I always

choose the other thing. I want to postpone the chaos of a meal for as long as

possible.

I grab my choppy auburn wig and sunglasses from the nightstand. I’ve

started using this disguise when I go places to avoid getting recognized. Miranda

and I walk to Disneyland and hop on Space Mountain, then on Matterhorn

since it’s close, even though neither of us likes it very much. We walk to the

partner theme park California Adventure. We ride the Guardians of the Galaxy

ride and walk through the Animation Academy building, where we learn how to

draw Simba. We’re folding up our drawings when the inevitable happens. My

stomach growls. We both laugh and agree to get dinner.

Miranda knows all about my food issues. She’s known for a while—since

early on in my recovery when it was suggested that I tell a few trusted friends.

Since then, Miranda’s been very supportive.

I appreciate her support but it’s also dicult at times. Before Miranda knew

about this stu, when bulimia was my secret, I could get through the ups and

downs on my own. I was the only person I had to be accountable to, the only

person I would disappoint. But now that she’s in on the secret, I can tell she’s

hyperaware of my eating tendencies. She’s constantly observing. I’m not just

disappointing myself with my slips, but her too.

“Where do you wanna go?” Miranda asks.

“Wherever there isn’t a line.”

I just wanna get the eating over with so I can brace myself for the onslaught

of emotions and will my way through their intensity until they pass and I

haven’t purged. Hopefully.

We walk to Downtown Disney, the shopping district attached to the theme

parks, and head for Tortilla Joe’s since they usually have the shortest line. We’re

seated in a corner booth and we order right away—chips and guacamole for the

table, Miranda gets some tacos, I get salmon with salad. I always think if I order

the healthy thing, I have a better chance of not throwing it up after. Less shame

in salmon than in a hamburger, I suppose. Or I would suppose if it worked every

time. But it doesn’t.

I’m so hungry by this point that I can’t stop myself with the chips and

guacamole. I tell myself just one, just two, just four, just six, but I don’t stop at

just one, or two, or four, or six. I keep going. I think I’m selling casualness

despite what’s going on in my mind.

It’s so annoying, eating-disorder brain. Anytime I’m having a conversation

with someone over a meal, there’s another conversation happening internally—

judgments and criticisms and self-loathing that press on me with such severity.

They’re a brutal distraction. I can never be present with whoever I’m with. My

focus is always more on the food than the person.

I’m told that this narrative, this way of thinking, this “eating-disorder brain,”

will lessen with time. I guess we’ll see.

The main courses come. I can tell by the way Miranda’s watching me that she

knows I’m anxious. I remind myself to chew slowly, look calm, act normal. Then

I excuse myself and say that I have to pee.

I get to the bathroom and check under the stalls to make sure they’re all

empty. I started doing this after a Disneyland trip three years ago when I got o

Jungle Cruise and beelined for the Adventureland restroom to throw up my

clam chowder. I was right in the middle of purging when a little hand poked out

from under the stall next to me with her Mickey & Friends autograph book,

asking me to sign it. I couldn’t because I’m right-handed, and since I’d just

purged, regurgitated bits of clam chowder were trickling down my arm. If those

bits got on her autograph booklet, Little Bailey would be forever changed.

Luckily this time the stalls are all empty. I have to be quick so no one catches

me. I hurry into the biggest one. I shove my ngers down my throat and purge

repeatedly until nothing comes up anymore. I wipe the puke o my arm with

toilet paper. I hate the toilet paper on Disney property because it’s very thin so it

crumples up around the vomit every time and I have to scrub the little puke-

toilet-paper-dingleberries o my arm with more thin toilet paper and then there

are more puke-toilet-paper dingleberries and then there’s more scrubbing and so

on.

I’m bent over the toilet bowl when I remember something Je told me.

“You don’t wanna be forty-ve at the oce Christmas party, with three kids

and a mortgage, sneaking into the bathroom to puke up the artichoke dip,” he’d

said.

Sure, I’m not forty-ve. And I don’t even like artichoke dip. But it is my

twenty-sixth birthday. I am getting older.

I think of Mom. I don’t want to become her. I don’t want to live o Chewy

granola bars and steamed vegetables. I don’t want to spend my life restricting

and dog-earing Woman’s World fad diet pages. Mom didn’t get better. But I

will.

89.

I’M STANDING ON AN EXCRUCIATINGLY rich Brentwood homeowner’s slanted

lawn. My stilettos have sunk into the grass. I should’ve never worn stilettos to a

party on a lawn, but I don’t know how to dress myself and I no longer have

Nickelodeon stylists who prepare me for events.

It’s dark out and there are twinkly lights and celebrities all around me. I’m at

some sort of holiday industry gathering my new manager invited me to, the

manager that represents me for writing. (My agents dropped me after they

realized my break from acting was not gonna be short-lived.)

I yank my heels up from the grass and make my way to the buet table when

what to my wondering eyes should appear but some miniature cheeseburgers…

but I don’t feel like something meaty and cheesy right now. I feel like something

sweet. And these days I pay attention to what I feel. I spot a dense, warm

chocolate chip cookie. Perfect.

As I chew, I realize that this is a chocolate chip cookie that I never would’ve

allowed myself to eat in my anorexic days, and never would have allowed myself

to keep down in my bulimic ones. A chocolate chip cookie that I haven’t

counted the calories in or had anxiety about eating. I think about how it’s been

over a year since I’ve purged and several months that I’ve actually been able to

nd enjoyment in the food I eat.

Recovery so far is, in some ways, as dicult as the bulimic/alcohol-ridden

years, but dicult in a dierent way because I’m facing my issues for the rst

time instead of burying them with eating disorders and substances. I’m

processing not only the grief of my mom’s death, but the grief of a childhood,

adolescence, and young adulthood that I feel I had never truly been able to live

for myself. It’s dicult, but it’s the kind of dicult I have pride in.

I hear over my shoulder a booming voice that sounds familiar. I turn and see

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. He looks so nice and Dwayne Johnson–like with

his big smile. The man oozes charisma.

I think about going up to him and introducing myself, reminding him of

that awards show years ago. Could Dwayne Johnson tell how miserable I was last

time we met? Would he sense a dierence now? Does he understand all the

obstacles and accomplishments that this cookie represents? Is Dwayne Johnson

God?

I’m trying to think of something funny or witty or charming to say, but I

can’t. My mind freezes in social settings, especially if those settings include The

Rock/God. I miss my chance. He wanders o into the crowd. I go back to eating

my cookie. Enjoying my cookie.

90.

I’M EATING DINNER AT MY apartment when my phone rings. It’s Miranda.

Typically I wouldn’t expect a call from her these days. We’ve drifted apart. It’s a

sad reality for me in my late twenties. At the beginning of the decade, the people

I was close to seemed like friends for life, people I could never imagine not seeing

every day. But life happens. Love happens. Loss happens. Change and growth

happen at dierent paces for dierent people, and sometimes the paces just

don’t line up. It’s devastating if I think too much about it, so I usually don’t.

But I know why she’s calling today. I’ve been expecting this call and just

didn’t know when exactly it would come.

“Hello?” I say, while I get up from the table and throw on some sneakers.

“Hey.”

We both start laughing. I can’t remember the last time we spoke, yet the

second we get on the phone with each other we start laughing.

I head out the front door so I can walk around the neighborhood while we

chat. We ll each other in on our dysfunctional family updates and major life

events and then there’s the pause, the little lull before the reason for the

conversation is about to be brought up.

“Miranda, I’m not doing the reboot. There’s nothing you can say to convince

me.”

“Well I’m still gonna try!” She laughs. I laugh too.

She tells me she thinks the reboot could be an opportunity for all of us in the

cast to “get back out there,” maybe get some other opportunities from it. It’s the

same spiel I already heard from a network executive a few months back when I

rst learned about the iCarly reboot.

I know both the executive and Miranda mean well in saying these things. But

I disagree. I don’t think a reboot could realistically lead to other opportunities

because, if the performer in the reboot hasn’t done signicant work in between,

the reboot just serves as a reminder of that. It further entrenches the performer

in the role that they initially got known for at least a decade prior, a role which

likely keeps their career stuck—not ourishing.

This business is tough. And this business doesn’t view a role in a reboot as a

career revival—it’s viewed as a career ender.

“But it’s really good money,” Miranda tells me. “I asked if they’d give you the

amount I’m making, and they said yes.”

Miranda’s right—the network was generous in their oer—and it was kind of

her to encourage that oer.

“I know,” I say to Miranda. “But there are things more important than

money. And my mental health and happiness fall under that category.”

There’s a moment of silence. It’s one of those rare moments where I feel like I

didn’t say too much, or too little. I feel like I represented myself accurately and

there’s nothing I would change about the way I said it. I feel proud. We wrap up

our conversation, promising to keep in touch, and hang up. I head back home to

nish my dinner.

91.

“HI, MOM,” I ALMOST SAY out loud, but I stop myself because I don’t wanna

look crazy to the other mourners around me. Mourner, singular actually. There’s

only one, and it’s the same guy I see here every time. He sits in a lawn chair with

a sun umbrella over him, playing soft rock from a stereo and staring at the

headstone of who I assume to be his former wife.

I look at Mom’s headstone. There are about twenty adjectives on it because

everyone in the family had adjective pitches and nobody was willing to forsake

theirs.

“We’ve gotta include ‘playful,’ ” Grandpa insisted.

“Why does nobody like ‘brave’? ‘Brave’ is a good word!” Grandma wailed.

So we just crammed all the words on there. Even Mom’s place of death is

cluttered.

This is my rst time visiting Mom’s grave since her birthday, last July. My

visits have become less frequent through the years, even though I promised

Mom, per her request, that I would visit her grave every day. In the beginning, I

visited once a week and felt guilty about it, like it wasn’t enough. But with time

and with reality, the visits have become less and less, and so has the guilt.

I sit cross-legged in front of her grave. I take a longer look at the words on her

headstone.

Brave, kind, loyal, sweet, loving, graceful, strong, thoughtful, funny, genuine,

hopeful, playful, insightful, and on and on…

Was she, though? Was she any of those things? The words make me angry. I

can’t look at them any longer.

Why do we romanticize the dead? Why can’t we be honest about them?

Especially moms. They’re the most romanticized of anyone.

Moms are saints. Angels by merely existing. NO ONE could possibly

understand what it’s like to be a mom. Men will never understand. Women with

no children will never understand. No one but moms know the hardship of

motherhood, and we non-moms must heap nothing but praise upon moms

because we lowly, pitiful non-moms are mere peasants compared to the

goddesses we call mothers.

Maybe I feel this way now because I viewed my mom that way for so long. I

had her up on a pedestal, and I know how detrimental that pedestal was to my

well-being and life. That pedestal kept me stuck, emotionally stunted, living in

fear, dependent, in a near constant state of emotional pain and without the tools

to even identify that pain let alone deal with it.

My mom didn’t deserve her pedestal. She was a narcissist. She refused to

admit she had any problems, despite how destructive those problems were to our

entire family. My mom emotionally, mentally, and physically abused me in ways

that will forever impact me.

She gave me breast and vaginal exams until I was seventeen years old. These

“exams” made my body sti with discomfort. I felt violated, yet I had no voice,

no ability to express that. I was conditioned to believe any boundary I wanted

was a betrayal of her, so I stayed silent. Cooperative.

When I was six years old, she pushed me into a career I didn’t want. I’m

grateful for the nancial stability that career has provided me, but not much else.

I was not equipped to handle the entertainment industry and all of its

competitiveness, rejection, stakes, harsh realities, fame. I needed that time, those

years, to develop as a child. To form my identity. To grow. I can never get those

years back.

She taught me an eating disorder when I was eleven years old—an eating

disorder that robbed me of my joy and any amount of free-spiritedness that I

had.

She never told me my father was not my father.

Her death left me with more questions than answers, more pain than healing,

and many layers of grief—the initial grief from her passing, then the grief of

accepting her abuse and exploitation of me, and nally, the grief that surfaces

now when I miss her and start to cry—because I do still miss her and start to cry.

I miss her pep talks. Mom had a knack for nding just the right thing in a

person to get them to light up and believe in themselves.

I miss her childlike spirit. Mom had an energy that could at times be so

endearing. Even captivating.

And I miss when she was happy. It didn’t happen as often as I would’ve liked,

it didn’t happen as often as I tried to force it to happen, but when she was happy

it was infectious.

Sometimes when I miss her I start to fantasize about what life would be like if

she were still alive and I imagine that maybe she’d have apologized, and we’d have

wept in each other’s arms and promised each other we’d start fresh. Maybe she’d

support me having my own identity, my own hopes and dreams and pursuits.

But then I realize I’m just romanticizing the dead in the same way I wish

everyone else wouldn’t.

Mom made it very clear she had no interest in changing. If she were still alive,

she’d still be trying her best to manipulate me into being who she wants me to

be. I’d still be purging or restricting or binging or some combination of the three

and she’d still be endorsing it. I’d still be forcing myself to act, miserably going

through the motions of performing on shiny sitcoms. How many times can you

pratfall over a carpet or sell a line you don’t believe in before your soul dies?

There’s a good chance I would’ve had a complete and public mental breakdown

by this point. I’d still be deeply unhappy and severely mentally unhealthy.

I look at the words again. Brave, kind, loyal, sweet, loving, graceful…

I shake my head. I don’t cry. The Doobie Brothers’ “What a Fool Believes”

starts playing from the sad man’s stereo. I stand up, wipe the dirt o my jeans,

and walk away. I know I’m not coming back.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my editor, Sean Manning, for your impact on this book. For

understanding my voice and making it so much stronger.

To my manager, Norm Aladjem, your early support and encouragement

means so much to me. Thank you for your wisdom, strategy, thoughtfulness,

and unshakeable calm.

To Peter McGuigan and Mahdi Salehi—thank you for your talent and

humor, and for helping to make this happen.

To Jill Fritzo and everyone at Jill Fritzo PR, thank you for your brilliance and

expertise.

To Erin Mason and Jamie C. Farquhar—for the transformative guidance and

tools you have provided me.

And nally, thank you, Ari, for your endless love, support, and

encouragement. I love you so much. You’re my best friend. I’m so happy we’re a

team. <harmonizing> We are here for uuuussss.

More in Personal Memoirs
The Glass Castle Shoe Dog
The Girl with the Lower
Back Tattoo
Year of Yes
An Invisible Thread Primates of Park Avenue

About the Author

JENNETTE MCCURDY starred in Nickelodeon’s hit show iCarly and its spin-o,

Sam & Cat, as well as in the Netix series Between. In 2017, she quit acting and

began pursuing writing/directing. Her lms have been featured in the Florida

Film Festival, the Salute Your Shorts Film Festival, Short of the Week, and

elsewhere. Her essays have appeared in HuﬀPost and The Wall Street Journal.

Her one-woman show, I’m Glad My Mom Died, had two sold-out runs at the

Lyric Hyperion Theatre and Hudson Theatres in Los Angeles. She hosts a

podcast called Empty Inside, which has topped Apple’s charts and features

guests speaking about uncomfortable topics. She lives in Los Angeles.

www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Jennette-McCurdy

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